


I'm the Guy That Didn't Marry Pretty Pamela Brown

by Kathar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Coulson family - Freeform, Fake/Pretend Relationship, High School Reunion, Humor, M/M, Meet the Family, Mission Fic, Mystery, OCs and invasive species, Secret Identity, The Author Regrets Nothing, small town conspiracies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD is reluctantly heading home for his high school reunion, at the request of an old friend. Natasha Romanov is playing the part of his girlfriend, even though she’s not. Clint Barton’s shown up with his bike, his bass, and a surprising knowledge of bluegrass. To complicate matters, Phil's parents wish he’d just settle down, Natasha has a hidden agenda, Clint ends up aiding and abetting juvenile delinquency, and the town in general is extraordinarily concerned with alien carp.</p><p>Complete as of 8/19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue/ Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> God, I don’t know. This started as a quick “hey, I love those Coulson’s family finds out he’s a BAMF stories” story. Between the conspiracy, the folk, the cranky hippies, Phil rebelling by being a scout, high school reunion dynamics for spies, and all the fish, it’s gotten out of hand. It’s going to get a wee bit ridiculous. 
> 
> Any and all political statements and beliefs are those of the characters, not the author. 
> 
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.
> 
> Title of story from the Tom Hall song.

**Prologue**

He’s high in the tree now, and at the edge of the horizon the lake is a sparkling blue stripe. Far below him, through the lower branches, he can just make out his targets. They’ve done a good job melting into the brush, but their ghillie suits only fully conceal them when they’re not moving. Right now they’re nervous, and they are twitching just a little like slightly hyper hillocks.  
He focuses his scope, re-settles his rifle so that it rests heavily in his palm and the crook of his arm. The wind rustles his hair, and from behind him, the low hum of an engine, off on the track, makes the birds go silent.

Then, the marks below him explode in red and tumble backwards, sprawling out of their nests. Another two, both dripping red and shedding bits of twig and branch everywhere, stumble into the clearing and then over to them.

Everything is silent for a moment, except for the faint curses as everyone looks around for the shooter, then checks for injuries, and the rising hum of the engine.

“Hey, up there, good work!” shouts a voice from below and behind him, but it’s light and mocking as it continues. “Spotted a problem, though.” The engine is really loud now, and then he sees the movement just as an ATV slams into his tree at speed, and he is sent flying through the branches. Just as he goes horizontal, the line around his ankle snaps taut and he falls in a slow arc until he’s dangling upside down from the tree.

A sandy-haired man in forest camo is grinning up at him, arms crossed in front of his chest, a little smudge of dirt on his face the only sign that he had bailed out of the ATV moments before impact. He’s wearing a quiver at one hip and dangling a bow negligently from his hand.

“I bet that line seemed like a real fine idea at the time,” the man continues, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes visible even behind his sunglasses. “What do you think now, Magambo?”

“I think...I think I’m not dead, Agent Barton, sir.” 

“Not yet, Magambo, but there’s still time. Always one hand for yourself and one hand for your tree, if you’re going to be stupid enough to nest in a place like that when you’re not me. Also, this is why we attach our safety lines to our waists, not our ankles. Now, where’s your knife?” His combat knife is in his boot, and he can’t pull himself up far enough to grab it. The other man sighs, “And do you have a pocket knife?” Mr. Magambo pulls one out of his cargo pocket, and tosses it down to the agent.

“That’s a decent rigging knife,” Agent Barton says, flicking it open one-handed while swinging himself into the tree with the other hand, completely casual. “You a sailor, Magambo?” He doesn’t wait for the answer, just slashes the line and watches, a smile on his face, as Magambo crashes into the gathered ghillie-suits below. When he comes up, his back is covered in second-hand paint.

“Gather ‘round, children,” he says to them. “I’m about to pass you back to Agent Sitwell. You’ve got another couple days with him to figure out what you did wrong; we’ll debrief early next week. Questions?” One of the ghillie suits raises an improbably delicate hand, giving a glimpse of a small face with dark-lashed eyes.

“Nguyen?”

“Do we get doughnuts, sir?”

“Do you _deserve_ doughnuts, Nguyen? Write your debriefs up all pretty, say nice things about your trainer, and we’ll see. There may even be coffee. Now,” Agent Barton unhooks the quiver from his hip and packs it onto the back of the battered ATV, “I’ve got to go to someone else’s high school reunion, and I’m already running late thanks to you guys. Much more competent than I’d been led to believe. So be good for Agent Sitwell, and don’t do anything I would do.” He grins at them, manages against all probability to start the ATV, and clanks off, leaving bits and pieces of it behind him.

Minutes later, Reade turns to the rest of them, eyes wide in her paint-covered face, and says:

“Is everyone out of the New York division like that? Or just him?”

“I dunno, but-- high school reunion? I thought being secret agents meant we didn’t have to do that kind of shit?” The ghillie suit on the right, who turns out to be Tremayne, snorts.

“C’mon, it’s got to be a cover. No fucking way Hawkeye’s going to a high school reunion, his or anyone else’s.” They all pause for a moment, and then Rolette, the remaining ghillie suit, shakes his head.

“Just think about it, man. Most badass job in the world, and I bet we’d be stuck telling all the jocks and IB kids and everyone that we’re accountants or some shit.”

“Welcome to SHIELD, ladies and gents. You should have thought of that before you signed up,” Agent Sitwell says behind them, and they jump as one. He’s grinning. “Go get cleaned up, children. Playtime’s over.”

**Going Home**

“I would have felt more comfortable with more time to brief you. You should have made the trip from New York with me.” Agent Phillip Coulson ran a hand over the spot on his forehead where his hairline had certainly been recently. A year ago maybe? He transformed the gesture into a quick scratch, and looked over at his passenger. “Well, it can’t be helped now. Have you had a chance to update your cover?”

“Yes, Coulson, I have.”

“Then call me Phil.” Their car was parked on one of the few side streets the little town of Washauwauk possessed. Right in front was a patch of lawn containing a plain Victorian house with dingy tan siding and several very overgrown junipers. In the distance behind the house, a gentle river bluff covered in fields rose against the sky, punctuated by a tiny stone tower. The keys were still in the ignition, and they had made no move to leave. They were both mostly staring at the dashboard, the trees on the boulevard, anything except each other.

“When we get inside I will. The last time we did this was a year ago. Have we been dating meanwhile, or did we recently reconcile?”

“Recently reconciled. Less history to account for. I don’t give them a lot of intel.”

“Your mother is still teaching at the middle school and I shouldn’t call her Debbie. Your father recently retired, and I should never, under any circumstances, allow him to take me down to the basement. Your brother Reuben, his wife Kelley, and their children Elliot and Noah will also be present. No pets, because your mother thinks they are unsanitary. We are here for your high school reunion. All correct?”

“Yes, Natasha,” Phil responded to the questioning tilt of her head. “I’m here for my high school reunion. I didn’t expect to involve you in this again, however. I’d apologize, but I don’t remember asking you to come.” 

“I didn’t choose the assignment.”

“Yes, about that. Director Fury assigned you to be my date to my high school reunion?”

“No, but it’s the best cover I could have. I would have done this for you anyway, you know that. It’s not the first time I’ve pretended to be your girlfriend to keep your mother off your back.”

“How convenient for everyone. Am I ever going to find out what this assignment-- in my own hometown-- is, or is this my punishment for recommending your promotion?” he asked her, an acerbic note to his voice.

“I was told eyes-only; I’ll have to ask permission to bring you in. As for the reunion, honestly, you shouldn’t go alone. And who else were you going to ask? Clint?” Natasha Romanov huffed as she side-eyed him, daggers in her glance. Phil opened his mouth to reply, and closed it again suddenly. In his rear-view mirror, a motorcycle was pulling up and parking. Phil’s gaze was locked on the rider as he unzipped his leather jacket, exposing a very fine chest. He removed his helmet slowly, tilting his head back and running a hand through the unruly shock of blond hair underneath. Natasha looked up as well, just in time for the rider to disappear from the rear view mirror and reappear at Phil’s window.

Phil rolled it down.

“Clint,” he said, in a tight, breathless voice. “Didn’t you get my text?”

“Phil,” Clint’s smile was warm bordering on incendiary, right up until he met Natasha’s gaze. “and Nat? Nat, what are you--?” 

“Phillip, honey!” While their attention had been on each other, the Victorian’s door had opened, and a woman in a shapeless cardigan and calf-length skirt had emerged. Her son most resembled her in coloration and high hairline; otherwise she was squat where he was lean, and her features were more birdlike. “What took you so long? Come in and say hello. Hello, Natasha, how nice of you to call and let me know you were coming. That’s more than I can say for my own son. Who is that man behind you? Are you lost? Can we give you directions anywhere?”

“No, ma’am,” Clint said, straightening up and pasting a public smile on his face. “I was just passing through town when I spotted Phil and Nat here. We’re old friends, so I thought I’d stop and say hello.”

“Bless you, Barton,” Phil muttered to himself as he got out of the car and went to greet his mother with a kiss on each cheek. As she was advancing too, they met in the no-man’s land of the sidewalk. Behind him, Clint and Natasha were glaring at each other, and Natasha was mouthing things at him that Phil couldn’t quite catch. Clint rolled his eyes and crowded up behind Phil. Natasha slid her hand up under Phil’s elbow and smiled at his mother.

“Introduce me?”

“Mom, Clint Barton; Clint, my mother Deborah Coulson-Steinitz. Clint works with Natasha and me.”

“Oh?” Deborah cocked her face like a partridge, blinking at Clint’s dusty leathers, tight t-shirt, jeans and combat boots. “What exactly do you do for the IMF? You don’t look like an analyst.” The wave of her hand from him to Phil in his neat navy suit and Natasha in her trousers and silk shell was clearly shorthand for One of These Things Is Not Like the Others.

“A-- no, I don’t-- I work in the; ma’am, contrary to public perception, the IMF doesn’t really exist, you know?” Clint spluttered. “And even if it did, I wouldn’t be an analyst for it; that’s beyond my skill-set....” As he trailed off, Deborah’s frown increased.

“What do you mean it doesn’t exist? It’s existed for decades, young man. Phil’s worked for it ever since he left the Army.”

“Mom,” Phil jumped in on the end of her sentence, “Clint’s just... he’s joking. He was referring to the Impossible Missions Force.”

His mother’s face remained dangerously blank.

“You remember the TV show? The movies with Tom Cruise jumping off high buildings?” She wasn’t responding at all. Clint jumped in with:

“It has that theme song that goes _doo doo doot doo, doo doo doot doo_ \--?” It was a miracle that Natasha’s eyes had not rolled entirely out of her head.

“I don’t watch movies much, I’m afraid.” Deborah murmured, and settled. “Well, it was good to meet you, Clint. I assume you’re on your way to Chicago tonight?”

“Nope, I have a motel room in town.” Clint told her cheerfully, and Phil’s eyebrows twitched upwards. 

“Come and stay for dinner, then,” Deborah said, bowing to the inevitable, “and tell us what you actually do with the International Monetary Fund.”

“Nothing good!” a light voice called from behind her, and a lanky man in large wire-framed glasses and an impressive gray ponytail sauntered out of the house. He wore a plaid shirt and sandals. “Nothing good will ever come of that damned place. Phil, I’m glad to see you. Your mother is glad to see you. Bring your friend and your girlfriend and come inside; I’m cooking tonight and I’ll just put more lentils on. You’re Clint? I’m Gary Coulson, Phil’s father.” 

Clint pulled himself back together, quickly snapping his mouth shut and holding out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Coulson.”

“Gary, Clint. It’s Gary. What do you do, anyway? Security? Keep my boy safe from the restless natives?”

“I... wouldn’t put it quite that way, sir, but yes, security. On his missions. His analysis missions. Where he analyzes things. Financially.” He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wide, at Phil, and mouthed something that might have been _your Dad’s a hippie?_ Natasha grinned at him evilly, tucked herself in closer to Phil’s side, and said:

“Let’s join them inside, sweetheart.”

Phil sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose absently as the door shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Dinner at the Coulsons; Gossip and Vinyl


	2. Dinner at the Coulsons/ Gossip and Vinyl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at the Coulsons  
> no ketchup- fathers and sons- Phil’s “rebellious” past- Natasha doesn’t cook- Washauwauk improvements
> 
> Gossip and Vinyl  
> Lagos stories- Clint goes to the basement- Natasha and children- an unfortunate incident- Pamela Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my loving beta (who knows who she is) for all the exposition-wrangling help.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Dinner at the Coulsons**

“I thought Reuben and Kelley were coming tonight?” Phil asked as he took one of the fiestaware plates from the pile and reached for the pot of lentils warming on the stove. His mother sighed as she reached around him, adding condiments to the counter and giving it a last wipe.

“Kelley decided they’d rather eat on the way; something about not wanting to pull the children out of activities early, _I_ don’t know. They’ll probably have some fast food and fill up on grease, and get here just in time for the dessert Kelley won’t let them eat. But they’ll be here. Reuben has something planned for tomorrow, but I’ll get the boys to myself while you’re all off at the reunion. Phil, dear, did you want ketchup with that?”

“Not since I was about ten, Mom,” Phil told her. Behind them, Clint coughed sharply.

“Leave him alone, Deborah,” Gary said, “He’s a grown man now, and if he doesn’t want ketchup he doesn’t want ketchup. As he’s so repeatedly reminded us, he makes his own decisions.”

“ _Dad._ ”

“What?”

“Do you have a spoon for the rice?”

It wasn’t until they were all seated around the Coulson’s small dining room table and had tucked into the lentils, rice, and parsnip fries, that anyone said anything more.

“The lentil curry is seriously good, Mr-- Gary,” Clint amended, wiping his mouth with his napkin and looking very self-satisfied. “Are you the one who taught Phil to cook?”

“Yep indeed. Phil and I spent hours in the kitchen when he was younger,” Gary said. “before high school, when he suddenly decided to join the Scouts, and then JROTC. He was barely at home, after that. But at least I taught him how to cook before he decided it was uncool.” Phil stared at his water glass, with its little gilt diamond pattern. 

“To be fair, Gary,” his mother said, “he was barely at home long before that. Remember that time we got a phone call from Mom in Chicago because he and Reuben had turned up at her door and didn’t we know they were missing? They’d gone to see the Cubs, I think. Of course, the Cubs were on the road that week...” Natasha and Clint both turned to stare at Phil, who shrugged.

“I’ve gotten better at advance planning since then.”

“And yet you still couldn’t bother to tell me about Natasha. I wouldn’t have known she was coming at all if she hadn’t called me to check. I barely had any time to get her room ready.”

“Well, he’s still a great cook, I’ve got to say,” Clint’s voice cut into the resulting silence, going back to the previous topic. “He does a crock pot bolognese that’s to die for. I can do your basic grilling and boiling just fine, but nothing like that.”

“I hope you’re not using veal in the bolognese, Phil,” his father told him, but was overridden by his wife’s voice:

“And what’s your favorite recipe, Natasha?”

“I don’t cook.” Natasha said in a flat tone. She poked her fork emphatically into her lentils. Phil took another drink, and stuffed a few more parsnip fries into his mouth. The silence stretched on, as silverware clanked against plates. Eventually, Clint turned to Deborah and said:

“It must be nice, having a husband who can handle dinner.”

“Why is that?” she responded, setting her silverware down on her plate and folding her hands as she looked at him. He sat up straighter in his chair with a tiny jolt, which might have been due to how closely crowded he was to Natasha and her high heels. 

“Um... because... you can get other things done? Or take a night off of cooking?” 

“I seldom do cook, Clint, although I can, of course.” she told him. “I use the time to grade assignments. Gary’s time is much more flexible.” She turned back to Natasha.

“And you? What do you do with the time you don’t spend cooking?” 

“Mom, that’s not--”

“Why, I spend lots of time with your son, and he cooks for me,” Natasha responded brightly, and punctuated her remark with a deft prod of her parsnip fries, spearing several at once. “Clint’s right; he’s a great cook. I’m especially fond of his bratwurst.” And she bit the tips off the parsnips, ignoring Phil’s bland gaze. Clint abruptly became fascinated with capturing a runaway lentil.

“Phil, you ought to catch up with Mary White while you’re in town. She’s trying to bring more fish farming into the area; maybe you can give her tips on attracting funding?”

“I’m really not that end of the business, Mom. Nor is the IMF appropriate unless she wants to fund fish farming infrastructure in Irkutsk or the Congo.”

“Well, you never do tell me anything about your job, Phil. Just a few stories is all I ask.”

“God, yes, anything is better than talking about Mayor Mary and her damned fishy... _fish_ schemes,” Gary interrupted, waving his knife about. “That woman’s going to bring this town to ruin, I tell you. Aquaculture is the wave of the future, she says. Can’t even repair dangerous infrastructure and she wants to fund alien fish hatcheries.”

“Alien fish?” Clint interrupted again. “How does a fish get to be an alien?”

“Silver carp, Clint. Some damn fool imported ‘em from Asia and now they’ve invaded our rivers. Damned things jump right up into your boat; nearly killed Dean White once. That mayor of ours figures if you can’t stop ‘em, eat ‘em, and she’s trying to get the town to invest in fish farms.”

After that, Clint was doomed to listen to the history of silver carp on the Fernton Creek, which he did without too much grimacing. Phil turned his attention to his mother, who wanted updates on everything, it seemed, but kept interrupting his answers in order to tell him related stories about his friends who had stayed in Washauwauk.

“You know Patty’s Tyler is home from the Army. He nearly broke her heart when he said he didn’t want to be a farmer and sold their land to Erwin White. Tyler wants to be an accountant and move to New York using the profit, so I thought she should look you up and see if the IMF is hiring,” she said, over the end of his description of the most recent concert he’d caught, which had happened to be in Prague.

“Not many people work in the New York office, Mom, he’s better off going to the website and seeing what’s available in DC.”

“So why are you there, then?”

“As I said before, Mom, we’re in the UN liaison office. Why doesn’t Tyler ask Reuben--”

“Hello, big brother!” a voice bellowed from the hallway. “I hear you taking my name in vain! Hello, Mom, hello, Dad. Hello, again, Natasha, you’re looking lovely. Hi, um?”

“Clint,” said Clint, and he got up to shake the hand of the tall, lanky man with the friendly expression of a hound. “I’m a friend of Phil. And Nat.” And then he was bowled over by a large and extremely hairy dog, followed by two curly-headed boys in various states of grubbiness, and a dishwater blonde with at least four bags slung over her shoulders.

“Reuben Steinitz, the least you could do is help unload the car,” she snapped, thumping the bags down in the hallway. Then she turned to Clint. “You’re the one I don’t know, so hi. I’m Kelley. That’s Elliot and Noah and George.” She gestured vaguely at the tangled mess of dog and child.

“Well,” Deborah said, advancing on her younger son and hugging him. “The gang’s all here. Including that dog of yours. Please make sure he stays off the carpets. Reuben, I got that peach pie you love so much. Come and have a slice. Boys, pie for you, too-- with ice cream.” And she led them directly into the kitchen, the dog trailing hopefully behind. 

“It’s good to see you, Kelley,” Phil said, standing to kiss her cheek. She smiled ruefully at him, and he returned it.

**Gossip and Vinyl**

They all gathered in the living room after dinner, except for Kelley, who had herded the boys-plus-dog upstairs and into a bathtub. Occasionally especially loud squeals, barks, or splashes would drift down the stairs, and Deborah would wince. She was seated in a pea green wing chair next to the window, with Phil at the end of the down-at-heels sofa closest to her. Natasha sat beside him, occasionally pressing his hand with her own as Phil, at his mother’s urging, told a carefully-redacted story about a fact-finding mission to Lagos to deal with some corruption in the fund's personnel in the area.

“As it turned out, we had to shut everyone down, do a clean sweep, and start all over. Then we finally got to go home.” he finished, as if that had been a simple case of pink slips and security escorting the former employees regretfully off the premises. Natasha and Clint had both been in Lagos, and did not meet each others’ eyes.

“And when you were back in New York relaxing and wrapping it all up neatly with bullet points in a report, what were those former employees and their families doing back in Nigeria, son?” Gary asked him.

“Most of them were sitting in jail awaiting charges,” Phil said, as deadpan as he could get. “The rest clearly had enough contacts in their own ways to find other employment. I’m not going to apologize for doing my job.”

“Not any more than the umpteen other times we’ve had this conversation, Dad,” Reuben broke in. “So let’s change the subject. Clint.” Clint startled and looked over at him.

“Me?”

“You! Mom told me you just happened to run into Phil and Natasha on your way through town. What brought you through here?”

“A motorcycle.” Reuben snorted.

“Yeah, I caught that on the way in. We should talk later. You know what I meant.” Clint acknowledged that with a little huff of a laugh.

“I was on my way to Chicago for the, ah, blues festival in a few days. Greg Brown’s supposed to be there and I thought I’d catch him.”

Gary, who had withdrawn completely from the conversation, perked back up at this.

“Hey, I need to see that! What day? Where? How do you know his stuff?” Clint shrugged back at him, but a smile was drawing wider on his face.

“Lemme look it up for you; I’ve got the details on my phone. I’ve heard him since forever-- I was born in Iowa.”

“You heard his early stuff? 44 & 66? You had to have been a kid then.” Clint shook his head. “You should, you should-- hey. I’ve got it on vinyl, downstairs. Come on down with me. Deborah, we’re heading to the basement.”

“Dear, I don’t--” Deborah began, as Phil snapped his head around and said

“Dad, Clint doesn’t want to--” Reuben said

“Hey, Dad, later would--” and Natasha said

“Clint, don’t you want to--.” Then they all broke off and apologized to each other. By the time they were done, Gary had disappeared down the basement stairs, Clint in tow.

“Oh, dear,” Deborah sighed.

Kelley walked down the stairs about a half hour later, a certain soggy satisfaction emanating from her. It dissipated as she saw them and registered the missing members.

“Oh, no, Clint hasn’t gone down to the basement with Gary, has he?” She said, interrupting her mother-in-law’s convoluted story about the newest marriage in the White clan, and which half of the town had attended.

“And how are the boys, dear?” Deborah said, rounding on her. “They seemed a little rambunctious tonight, I hope they settled down well.”

“It was a long car trip after a long day, and a lot of sugar at the end of it.” Kelley responded as she slumped down next to Natasha. “They were little assholes, but they’re asleep now.”

“I can’t say I ever would have said that about my own sons; I suppose I was lucky.” Deborah told her, patting Phil on the hand. Both he and Reuben were looking anywhere but at her, each other, or the other two women. “Which isn’t to say they couldn’t get rowdy sometimes. Very stubborn. I blame Gary’s side of the family-- be careful when you have children, Natasha, the Coulson genes are like that.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on having children,” Natasha said blithely, “it would be the worst possible thing for all of us.” Kelley tilted her head back and laughed.

“Right on,” she choked out.

Phil pasted on an amiable smile and turned towards his mother, who was staring at Natasha in silence but looked like she was slowly gathering herself up into mountainous proportions.

“How’re the Browns these days, Mom? You mentioned there was a problem with Leo’s son?”

“Yes,” Deborah frowned at him, then at Natasha, then back at him, and deflated a little. “Yes, a pity. Natasha, the Browns were our first friends in Washauwauk, and Leo and Phil and Pamela all were close. The rest of the family’s doing so well. Phil, you should see Pamela’s three. Duncan must be nearly grown by now and Jordan--”

“Is likely a fine specimen of a girl. Or boy. But what about Leo’s kid?”

“He’s breaking Leo’s heart right now. He was supposed to be quarterback of the football team this year, but a few weeks ago he had a breakdown. Got into a fight with a couple of Erwin’s boys and their friends from the next town over.”

“Was he badly hurt?” Natasha asked.

“No. Not then. The others were in much worse shape. But after that it was like he had a meltdown; I heard Leo had to take him to Chicago for treatment. Everyone here’s saying it was steroids but Gary’s been over helping Leo out when he needs it and he says the doctors don’t think so but can’t figure out what it is. They’re keeping him in isolation.”

“That’s very peculiar, what for precisely?” 

“Well, I don’t want to go into details; It’s a private matter.” Deborah said sharply, then continued with “It’s such a shame, you know. The Browns are such a good family, and I remember when Chris was in my class he was perfectly polite. Always turned things in on time, always paid attention.”

“Well, that _is_ suspicious,” Reuben muttered.

“Pamela’s worried about it too, and she doesn’t do that lightly.” his mother continued over him, “She’s turned out very well, Phil. Such beautiful children, and she’s such a good teacher. Shame you let her get away.”

“Let who get away?” Clint’s voice carried from behind them, and they all turned. He had evidently survived the basement, and Gary was chuckling behind him. A second glance showed that Clint’s clothing had been disarranged somehow, his eyes were dilated, and he was distinctly flushed, but he didn’t seem particularly traumatized.

“No one in particular,” Phil started.

“No, really, Phil, tell us,” Natasha said. “Who was she?”

“High school sweetheart,” Gary answered for Phil. “Great girl. Broke your heart a bit, eh, Phil?” Reuben opened his mouth to speak, but Phil beat him to it.

“We both moved on a long time ago. I’m glad she’s doing well, Mom. If none of you mind, I have some work I have to do tonight; I’m going to head in to bed. Natasha, can you entertain yourself? Clint, you’re okay to get back to the motel in the dark?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Kelley said brightly, “I’m going that way, I’ll make sure he gets there-- I’m meeting friends down at the Same Old Place. Natasha, come with us. Have a girl’s night and let us tell you all about Phil as a kid. What do you think?”

Evidently, Natasha thought this was a good idea. In less than five minutes, the house was emptied of everyone not genetically tied into the Coulson-Steinitz clan.

As they got to the sidewalk, Kelley turned to Clint and asked if he wanted to join them at the bar.

“You’d drive the girls wild,” she added. He smiled back at her.

“I’ve got to get back to the motel and, ah, unpack.” He gestured with the two large, black soft-sided cases Natasha had just removed from the trunk of Phil’s car, where they’d been stored during dinner rather than left in the open on his bike. “But thanks. Is it, um, always like this?” he gestured with a nod of his head to the house. Kelley and Natasha exchanged glances.

“Oh, this was mild. You should have seen it at the wedding.” Natasha told him. Clint glared at her.

“No, really, it’s true.” Kelley laughed in response. “I was half certain Deborah was going to tie you two together and drag you in front of a judge, she’s that desperate for Phil to start a family. C’mon, Natasha, I’ll buy the first round.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time:
> 
> At the Window  
> no Captain America shrines here- Natasha’s motives questioned- awkward teenage behavior from grown adults
> 
> Encounter in the Dark  
> contributing to juvenile delinquency- probably not aliens, probably-Mandy
> 
> Brotherly Concern  
> Phil's intentions questioned- high school reunions- Phil’s friend Marty


	3. At the Window/ Encounters in the Dark/ Brotherly Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Window  
> no Captain America shrines here- Natasha’s motives questioned- awkward teenage behavior from grown adults
> 
> Encounter in the Dark  
> contributing to juvenile delinquency- probably not aliens, probably-Mandy
> 
> Brotherly Concern  
> Phil's intentions questioned- high school reunions- Phil’s friend Marty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**At the Window**

Phil had his laptop out on his knees as he lounged on the daybed, and was tapping fitfully at it. Natasha was still out with Kelley, his mother and father had retreated to bed, and he’d last heard the creak of feet that signaled Reuben trying to shush Noah back to sleep about fifteen minutes earlier. It was soft and dark on the ground floor when the _pock_ of something hitting the window next to him made him sit up.

 _Pock!_ came the sound again. Phil looked out, then drew up the sash, a smile leaking from the corners of his mouth. Clint leaned in the window and grinned back up at him, his sharp eyes shining in the low light as he looked around. Phil watched as his gaze ranged over the quilted daybed, Phil’s files and pocket items in a pile on the end table, the roll-top desk too filled with stacks of paper to fit Phil’s electronics, and finally rested back on Phil himself. 

“I am seriously disappointed,” he said. “Where’s all the Captain America memorabilia I was led to expect from your childhood bedroom?”

“This isn’t my childhood bedroom.” Phil told him, setting his laptop well to the side and resting his arm against the edge of the window. “That’s back in Chicago. My _teenage_ bedroom is upstairs and Natasha is using it. This is the study, usually.” Clint snorted at him.

“Your Mom’s not letting you bunk with Natasha?”

“You did meet my mother earlier tonight, right?” Phil’s smile turned wry at the corners.

“Point taken. She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like anyone at first, Clint.”

“Yeah, I got that earful from Natasha. Looks like I missed a good time.”

“You didn’t miss much except Mom trying to remind me that I’m not getting any younger nor am I producing an adequate number of babies. Natasha disappointed her sadly there.”

“I would really love to know what Natasha’s doing here.”

“God and Fury know, and neither of them are talking to me right now. She called me when I was halfway here and told me to pick her up just outside of town because she had an eyes-only mission in the area, and was going to come as my date. She’d already called my mother at that point. I did _try_ to let you know. I hope there were actually rooms at the motel?”

“I don’t think that motel’s been fully booked since the Reagan era. I was off-grid with the trainees when you texted. As for Natasha, it’s weird that Fury asked her to do this instead of you.”

“I _am_ technically on vacation.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like he ever respected your vacation time before. I don’t like that we weren’t included in the need to know, either. She’d better tell us tomorrow, damnit.” Clint crossed his arms on the sill and set his chin on it, pouting just a bit. It brought his head and shoulders out of the night and turned them tawny in the glow from the bedside lamp. Phil hummed in sympathy, and watched the play of light and dark over the planes of Clint’s face. The silence stretched.

“Are you relieved?” He asked when the weight of it became too great.

“Relieved?” Clint looked up at him, lashes thick with shadows. “You mean that Natasha stole the boyfriend role?” Phil winced.

“‘Yeah?” Clint licked his lips, eyes downcast for a moment. Then he laughed, soundlessly, given away by the shaking of his shoulders. 

“I’m not sure? Are you?” 

“I, ah, I’m not sure either.”

“Okay.” There was another pause, and then Clint continued softly, “Hey, Phil, not that talking with you outside your bedroom window isn’t kind of cool in an awkward teenager way, but d’you suppose your girlfriend would mind if I came in?” He was tracing the interior edge of the windowsill with two fingers, and looking up at Phil from beneath his lashes. His eyes reflected the lamp light.

“No, but my mother might. Then again, we wouldn’t want you to catch cold out there. This is a historic first, I think: I didn’t date the kinds of kids who snuck in windows. I didn’t date a lot, actually. I mean, I'm not saying you're--” Phil babbled, beginning to move away from the sill to give Clint room to come through. As he did, there was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” Phil said, as he gathered his laptop to him. “Mom?”

“Damnit, Phil!” Reuben said, and tromped in. Clint, Phil noticed out of the corner of his eye, had disappeared from the window. “Do I sound like Mom?”

“Not really, Reuben. What can I help you with?”

“You can listen to me whine at you about how my mother and wife get along so well that my wife just fled the house in the company of another woman.”

**Encounters in the Dark**

Clint waited underneath the windowsill, arms curled around his knees, until he heard Phil close the sash. Then he shook his head to himself, a little rueful smile on his face, and eased himself out of the tangle of juniper bushes.

As he padded through the yard a scuffling sound from high in the tree behind him caught his attention. A moment later, he was able to reach out and yoink at the pajama top of a boy who was precipitating himself down the trunk.

“Glik!” The boy exclaimed as he dropped, and Clint put a hand over his mouth.

“Shh! Elliot, right?” The boy nodded around his hand. “If you don’t want to get caught-- and I assume from your dramatic bedroom-window exit that you don’t-- you’re gonna need to handle your surprise more quietly.” He peeled his hand off, and Elliot nodded again.

“Sorry, sir. I was just... um....” He trailed off.

“Oh, no no no. I’m not interested in what you’re doing out, kid, just try not to get caught. Fair warning, your Dad’s sitting with your Uncle Phil in the study. You might try the dining room window.”

“Oh, I’m not going back in yet! I just got out! I still have to-- _do stuff_.” After the boy caught himself, he became very interested in brushing imaginary bark off his sleeves. With his high forehead and the determined set of his jaw, he looked like a curly-headed version of his uncle. Clint laughed a bit harshly.

“Clearly it runs in the family. Aw, hell. Who am I to tell you to make good choices? Just don’t run away and join the circus, okay?”

“Ew, no. I hate clowns.”

“Wise man. Don’t get yourself hurt and be back by midnight. And come get me at the motel if for some reason it goes south.”

“It’s not going to go bad at all, though! It’s just that Joey White and I were going to try and figure out what his Daddy has hid in his shed.” Then he clapped his hands over his mouth, too late to stop himself.

“Right, that’s never going to end badly. I’ll repeat myself: come find me at the motel. Call your Uncle Phil if you get in trouble otherwise. And for fuck’s sake, learn to sneak a bit more quietly, please.”

Clint shook his head as he headed back for the motel, belatedly wondering out loud if he shouldn’t have turned the kid in after all. He was all of what, ten? At ten Clint had been learning to clean out the tiger cages, but he’d since been informed this did not constitute an age-appropriate activity. He kept up a mumble to himself as he walked, trying to figure out whether he actually knew anyone who’d had a normal childhood so he could ask about this kind of thing. Phil’s, it was quickly becoming apparent, had been at least a little bit off. Natasha was right out. Sitwell was an Army brat and he also wasn’t here. “Ordinary childhood,” just didn’t seem to be something that was a positive indicator for work in a secret quasi-governmental agency.

It wasn’t a long walk, and the night was mild. As he passed, he kept half an eye on the darkened woods emerging from the low slope at the back of town. Charcoal shadows in the trees where they caught a little tiny bit of moonlight, darker absences between the woods that hinted at fields and ditches, little green lights shining in the middle of a black expanse. He glanced back at those lights more than once, and even stopped to watch them. They didn’t move, didn’t flicker.

He started up again, but kept turning to watch them. Far up on the hill, a smaller set of magnesium white lights came into view, snaking and shaking slowly downwards from a black blot on the sky with a peak like an arrow’s point or a witch’s hat. By daylight, that would probably resolve itself into the old stone water tower he’d seen as he rode in earlier. The headlights passed by the green glowing things, then disappeared.

“Probably not aliens, then” he muttered to himself, “probably.” He finally rounded a corner onto the main street, and the green lights were hidden behind buildings. He was humming a bit as he let himself into his motel room, where he flipped on the low, flickering wall lamp and sighed.

“Well, Mandy,” he said to the black soft-sided carrier waiting for him on his bed, “it was worth a shot, I suppose. At least I've got you to keep me company.” He unzipped the carrier halfway, then paused. A few minutes later, he realized he was staring vacantly at his hands. “Just you and me, babe.” he said softly.

 **Brotherly Concern**  
“Natasha will make sure Kelley gets home safely, even if she’s too drunk to stand,” Phil told Reuben as he closed the window. His brother laughed, but there wasn’t a lot of mirth in it.

“It’ll just piss Mom off more, but it’s hard to blame Kelley. Mom’s making _me_ want to drink right now, and I didn’t even marry her precious son.”

“Much to my disappointment,” Phil deadpanned as he sat back down on the daybed. Reuben shot him a look, then joined him, falling on his side and dangling his legs like he had as a child.

“You thinking of marrying Natasha?” he asked. Before Phil could begin to formulate a response, he continued. “Because don’t pay attention to Mom, if you are. She wouldn’t like anyone you brought home, you know that.”

“I’m well aware of it, yes.”

“I thought having Elliot and Noah would reconcile her to Kelley, but look how well that’s turned out. So: don’t worry about Mom. If you want to marry Natasha, marry Natasha.” Phil frowned at him and opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Reuben didn’t seem to notice. He was twisting his own wedding ring a little as he continued.  
“Hell, Phil, you’re not getting any younger. I’m not saying settle down or anything, but you could use a good partner to take care of you. Doesn’t much matter whether it’s a wife or, y’know, a really attentive guy with a kickass bike.” His eyes were on the ceiling; his voice a light, considering drawl.

“And how do you feel about _Natasha_?” Phil asked him, glancing surreptitiously towards the closed window.

“Yeah, okay, keep out sign duly noted. It’s not _my_ opinion that matters, but I think Natasha’s just fine-- I like her spark. I think she could give Mom a run for the money, if she tried. Kelley may be grooming her for the in-law position. She likes her.”

“I suspect the feeling is mutual; Natasha doesn’t normally wander off with strange women. How are you and Kelley doing, anyway? And the kids?”

“Oh, we’re exhausted. Run-down, wrung-out, hung down-- you know. There’s never enough time or if there is there isn’t enough money. But that woman-- I wouldn’t trade her for the world, Phil. She holds everything together. I’d just...” Reuben sighed. “I just want that for you, too.” Phil leaned over and patted him awkwardly on the knee.

“I’ll take what I can get.” They sat in silence for a little, then Reuben reached over and pulled the envelope that had been on Phil’s bedside table to him. It was emblazoned with the Washauwauk High Mighty Hawks symbol, a hawk in a boxing stance, his wings ending in an approximation of fists, and “All-Year Reunion” crossed the top in a marquee font.

“I thought you didn’t believe in these things, Phil,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Why come now? It’s all the same old same old: the jocks got fat and slow, and at least one of ‘em owns a car dealership; the nerds turned into accountants and computer programmers or moved away and don’t come back; the cheerleaders and the bad girls, they all look the same from this distance.”

“Except your bad girl.”

“Except my bad girl. But since she’s mine, I’m entitled to think she’s different. So, seriously, what?” Phil looked at his brother for a moment, lips pursed slightly.

“You remember Martin LaBlanc?”

“Your Army buddy Marty? Got deployed together? Hell yeah, I remember him. Dad still blames him for you going all GI on us. Didn’t he move back a little while ago? Old Same Place?”

“Enlisting wasn’t Marty’s fault, and I told Dad that at the time. I just needed to do something big, and I was a romantic back then-- the Army was appealing. Marty was the same way. He emailed me last week, asking me to come.”

“What, just to catch up? Good-- great! You guys used to be close, it’d be good for you to be back in touch.”

“We probably won’t be for long, Reuben.” Phil swallowed as he said it. “He’s got mesothelioma. They give him maybe a few months. So yeah, he wanted to catch up. I’m going out there tomorrow to chat.” Reuben winced in sympathy.

“Aw, shit. Phil, I’m sorry. Marty was always good people.”

“He still is.”

“Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though, I know he pissed Dad off, but I was glad you had him with you when you deployed, to watch your back. It’s good that he’s got you now.” Phil’s laugh was sharp as a retort.

“Some friend I am; I’ve hardly talked to him in years. Not since I moved to New York, I think.”

“To be fair, you hardly talk to us, either. No, don’t grouse at me, brother mine, you know it’s true. You’re out of the country as much as you’re in it, and even when you’re in it-- oh, never mind. Tell Marty I said ‘hi.’ I’m going to head to bed; I’ll see you at the Traditional Coulson-Steinitz Family Breakfast, I guess.”

“I think I’ll skip the Traditional Coulson-Steinitz Family Cold Cereal Bar, thanks. Natasha and I will probably head to the Blue Note.”

“Yeah? Say, you two want to come fishing with us after Marty’s? She could get to know the boys better.”

“I might; Natasha won’t. She said she had things to do in town.”

“Phil... I like Natasha, I do, but are you sure she’s not maybe a little bit crazy? I mean, there’s nothing _to_ do in town.”

“You know that, I know that, but does Natasha know that?” Phil asked his brother, as he shooed him out the door. “See you in the afternoon, or dinner, or in the line for the upstairs bathroom, whichever comes first.”

When Reuben left, he looked back down at the invitation in his hand and sighed, then hesitated, his hands on the sash of the window. He did eventually push it up, but Clint was long gone. Closing it and the curtains again, he brought his laptop back up and settled in against the pillows. He had Marty’s last email open, along with the pictures he’d attached-- aerial shots of the land surrounding the Old Same Place, with circles and arrows and Marty’s notes in the margins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: 
> 
> Breakfast at the Blue Note  
> Natasha confronted- Phil in plaid- briefs and debriefs- assignments are handed out- Pamela arrives


	4. Breakfast at the Blue Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha confronted- Phil in plaid- briefs and debriefs- assignments are handed out- Pamela arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter here, but at least we get some answers. After this-- plot! Mostly.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Breakfast at the Blue Note**

The Blue Note Cafe looked marginally better in the early morning light than it had when Kelley had pointed it out to her in passing the night before. Outside, the sign on the old brownstone was a little brighter and less ominous. The mass of papers plastered over a window resolved itself into the usual combination of flyers for the high school musical, lost cats, offers of sale for snowmobiles and farm equipment and aquaculture demonstrations, and a set of posters promoting the local Elk chapter’s carp fry.

Inside, the formica counter was mostly full of men in seed corn caps sitting in front of plates of eggs, overflowing cups of coffee, and randomly flung newspapers. The walls held a collection of seascapes and wildlife prints, all framed in blue or white. Booths ringed the walls, and the rest of the small space was taken up with an ill-matched assortment of tables stuffed as closely together as they could be fit. Clint Barton was leaning over one of those tables, regaling a passel of assorted women and one man with some story that was making them chuckle into their mugs.

Natasha sat down in a booth in the far corner, from which she could watch all the exits, and waved at him. Clint extricated himself from the group with a smirk, strolled over, and flopped into the seat opposite her.

“How was the motel? Did you sleep well?” she greeted him.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Nat?” he responded. She folded her hands primly in front of her on the table, and raised a single eyebrow at him.

“Director Fury asked me to come.”

“No shit,” he said, desert-dry. 

“None whatsoever. He gave me permission to bring you two in this morning. Believe it or not, he thinks there’s something... ‘hinky,’ to use his words, going on here.”

“Fury never said ‘hinky,’ Nat, seriously.”

“He did, though. Apparently, the high school’s star quarterback recently had a mysterious breakdown and was bundled off to Chicago in the dead of night.”

“Okay, that’s ‘hinky’ all right, but it’s not exactly eyes-only, nor does it call for our special talents. Maybe the FBI. Or Nancy Drew. You’d do a good Nancy Drew....” This earned him a glare both from Natasha and from the waitress who had appeared to take their order. Clint made her leave the coffee pot, and pushed it towards Natasha as a peace offering.

“This is what I said. Fury told me that the description of the mysterious breakdown, according to the doctors who examined him in Chicago, bears a disturbing resemblance to, and again I quote our good Director, ‘that gamma shit Ross was playing with.’”

“Was that the one where some scientist dude in Culver got turned into the Jolly Green Giant? Took down, like, a quarter of the Army and disappeared? He’s like _that_ guy?”

“Yes, except with _much less_ property damage and greater retention of pants. The green tint to his skin appears to have been less pronounced, as does the rage, and his strength isn’t nearly what the intel out of Culver describes.”

“Jesus. Most of the green rage-monster, none of the benefits.”

“That’s right. It was the green skin that pinged SHIELD’s radar. Fury asked me to investigate possible causes of the problem.”

“So,” Clint tried to nonchalantly place his boots on the table, and put them down as the waitress paused, halfway across the room, to shoot daggers at him with her eyes. “He assigned you to come as Phil’s date?”

“I’m sure he would have if he’d thought of it. No,that was merely convenient timing; the cover was already there, after last year. Phil wasn't likely to object, since I've covered for him before, and I _am_ a striking date to show off to one's classmates. At least this way _you_ didn’t feel obligated to do it for him.” She fixed him with a happy smile as he froze, staring at her.

“You... thought you were doing me a _favor_?” he got out after several open-mouthed moments.

“I knew Coulson would ask you to do it and you’d never have the guts to say no, so someone had to save you from yourself. You’d have put up a brave front and moped secretly every time someone told you how cute you two were together. Then you would have texted me every five minutes about it. So call it a self-serving favor.” She waved a spoon at him.

“What the hell makes you think I’d do that?”

“Do not start this argument with me. Need I remind you about the surveillance mission on the cruise to Key West? The arms deal at that fundraiser for Save the Woodrats and your hours-long ramble about tuxes being unfair? That talk we had just before I went to Bratislava about you getting your head out of your ass and not following certain people around like lost mutts just hoping they’d turn around and trip over you? I think the evidence of, well, the _entire time I’ve known you two_ is on my side here.”

“Nat, you left for Bratislava nearly four months ago. I'm-- what?” The waitress just sighed as she repeated herself. “Oh, yeah, the french toast is mine. Sorry.” He waited while she set a plate heaped with french toast and bacon in front of him, slapped down a sticky carafe of syrup, then repeated her actions with Natasha’s fruit cup (mostly melon) and omelette.

“Anything else?” she asked, already halfway backed away from the table.

“A number three: eggs over _very_ easy, sausage, and an english muffin please, Deanne. And another coffee mug. How’s your Mom these days?”

“Dead three months now, thrombosis. She keeled over in the middle of a tantrum. In public, too. Community forum.”

“I’m sorry,” Phil said as she turned towards him.

“I’m not. She only got more witchy as she aged. As it was, it saved us a hell of a fight; she was fixing to sue Erwin White over that horrible alfalfa field they used to fight over. Good to finally see you again Phil, you in town for the reunion? About time you made one.” He acknowledged this with an apologetic half-smile and she slapped his back as she left.

“Good morning, Agents,” he greeted them as he slipped into the booth next to Clint, who stared at him in wide-eyed shock.

“I, um, boss? Are you wearing a plaid shirt?” He was-- a blue and green one that deepened the color of his eyes considerably.

“Blend in with the locals, Barton, I thought you knew that.” Phil told him, a little unfairly. Broad-shouldered, blonde, and dressed in a sweatshirt, well-worn jeans and boots, Clint blended better with the milieu than either compulsively neat Phil-- plaid aside-- or Natasha in her low-cut cami, mustard-colored jacket, and expensively casual red curls. “Anyway, Mom brought it and Dad likes it.”

“Your Dad is something else, sir,” Clint told him fervently.

“He seemed to like you all right,” Natasha broke in. “He kidnapped you, anyway. I can’t believe you went into the basement with Mr. Coulson. There are rules about that.”

“No one ever told me these rules-- I went in blind! I am now _severely_ traumatized. I’m gonna need serious therapy-- hell, I might be permanently compromised.”

“I’m so sorry--”

“No, seriously, boss, it was a great time, I don’t know what you’re all so worried about. He showed me his vinyl collection and I laid on the carpet and listened to Greg Brown and Leo Kottke and shit. He’s got enthusiasm, huh? And he knows his stuff; I’m just playing around compared to him.”

“I’m... huh. That’s not the usual reaction, on either side. It’s usually either yelling within five minutes or... did you notice the--?” Phil trailed off, waving his hands vaguely.

“The grow-lights and general set-up in the laundry room? Hard not to, really.”

“Of course.” His answering huff made Clint laugh.

“I think you’re making it out to be worse than it is. Yeah, there were a couple plants in there, but most of the set-up was empty. A bunch of empty seedling trays and peat wouldn’t get him convicted of much.”

“Oh, god,” Phil groaned. “That means someone’s loaning him land somewhere.”

“Probably? I could try and find out this afternoon, if you really want to know what illegal activities your father might be up to. He saw Mandy’s case when I was putting her into your car yesterday, and asked me to come to his band practice.”

“The Close Enough to Fernton Boys? They’re still around? Oh, god. Well, if you’re going, there are more important topics I’d like you to bring up for me.” Clint straightened up at this, and waved a hand at Natasha.

“You need intel, sir? Is there something going on here besides the rageaholic quarterback thing Fury put Nat on?” Phil frowned.

“Tell me about this thing of Fury’s that you’re on, please.” As Natasha filled him in, he fiddled with the precise placement of his silverware, and Clint doused his french toast in syrup and tucked in. When she finished, he grunted a little.

“I agree that the quarterback pretty much has to be Leo Brown’s son. I suppose it’s too much to ask my own boss to tell me what assignments he’s given the agents I work with. The timing is either convenient or suspicious, too. Barton, you know about Martin’s email. Let me fill you in, Natasha.”

His breakfast came while he talked, and Deanne interjected a brief note of sympathy for poor-Marty-bless-him before she left. Phil paused to poke his egg yolks until they ran into his hashbrowns, and mixed them idly. When he was certain Deanne was out of earshot, he continued.  
“Since he first contacted me, he’s sent me some aerial photos of his place and the surrounding farms. He’s clearly worried about _something_ , and Marty never did worry easily. He sent them to me, and he’s well aware I don’t work for the Department of Agriculture, so I don’t think this is a simple case of cheating on farm subsidies." He pointed at Clint with his eggy fork.  
“When you go with Dad try and strike up a conversation with Leo-- he’s the owner of the Same Old Place. Otherwise, your assignment is to be as charming as possible-- you seem to have already made friends with the Whites. They make up half the town, so stay friendly.” He nodded over to the table Clint had stopped at earlier, where several of the women were still watching the trio out of the corners of their eyes.  
“Natasha, I’m re-assigning you-- can you take the photos and try to match them to property deeds? It’ll all be in paper files at the City Hall.”

“I suppose you’re invoking senior agent’s prerogative, sir?”

“You suppose correctly.”

“I’ve got no room to complain, then. Email me the pictures and thank you for getting my check,” she said as graciously as if he had actually offered, and slid out of the booth and onto her feet in one fluid movement. “I’ll see you two at dinner. Don’t get into too much trouble.” Phil looked over at Clint, then slid himself and his plate around to the other side of the table. Clint grinned at him as he settled in. Natasha turned her back to him and tipped her head down as she put on her jacket, but snapped upright suddenly at movement on the periphery of her vision.

“Phil!” said the woman approaching their table, waving. Clint and Natasha watched her, stock still. Fluffy light brown hair, a pinkly pleasant complexion, very definitely no hidden knives or guns or garrottes or even, likely, agendas. “Phillip Coulson, what are you doing here? You almost never come home, according to your mother.”

“Pamela?” Phil said, standing up. Clint and Natasha glanced at each other. “My god it is. You look good-- you haven’t changed a hair. How’re you and the kids doing?” His eyes crinkled with his smile and he pressed her hand in his.

“Oh, I’m fine. They’re huge! It’s so good to see you. Are you going to introduce me?”

“Yes, right-- Clint, Natasha, Pamela Brown. She’s an old friend.” Phil waved at each of them as he introduced them. Natasha nodded politely.

“Oh, not _that_ old, I hope! Geez, Phil. It’s been ages. You need to tell me everything you’ve been doing. Are you here for the reunion?”

Clint had stood up to take her hand, then kept going out of the booth. “Good to meet you, ma’am. Phil, I’m going to head out with Natasha. Have a good chat.”

As he and Natasha neared the exit, he looked back once. Pamela had sat down in his seat, and was leaning in towards Phil, her eyes alight as she chatted. When he turned back, Natasha was staring at him. She raised an eyebrow, which he ignored with long-practiced ease.

He was nearly at the door when someone at the table full of Whites called his name. This time, his shrug said “work to do,” and Natasha’s eyebrow said “get to it then.”

His eyes might have strayed back to Phil and Pamela in their corner booth a couple of times, though, while he made himself charming and listened attentively. One of the interchangeable White women prompted the crooked and plaid-claid Dean, clearly an elder of the clan, through an interminable story. Over in the far corner, Phil was patting Pamela on the hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time:  
> The Old Same Place  
> Cancer sucks- a federal case?- incidental geiger counters- old-time Washauwauk- could have been Phil
> 
> A Spider in City Hall  
> City Hall after hours- Natasha in the archives- a conspirator revealed- Natasha caught


	5. The Old Same Place/ A Spider in City Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Old Same Place  
> Cancer sucks- a federal case?- incidental geiger counters- old-time Washauwauk- could have been Phil
> 
> A Spider in City Hall  
> City Hall after hours- Natasha in the archives- a conspirator revealed- Natasha caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**The Old Same Place**

“Come in, Phil. Come in. Fucking doors, they make ‘em smaller every year.”

“Nice wheels, Marty,” Phil responded to his grumble as he discreetly pushed the door wide enough so that the wheelchair Marty was sitting in could pass through. Whoever had done extension of the trailer’s miniscule front porch that included a long wheelchair ramp, they’d forgotten easy access to the door itself.

Martin LaBlanc had never been a large man, but he’d put on considerable hidden muscle in the Army. He’d turned sinewy and sleek and he could move like an otter. There was little otter in him now, and less even of the callow-faced youth he’d been when he and Phil had first joined up. The kid who’d picked Phil back up after Pamela had left him laying on the ground, as Phil had liked to tell the story. That was back in the Army, when he did tell the story sometimes, usually while drunk. Now, Marty was shrunken in on himself, hairless, pale and he no longer bothered with the artificial leg that had been his constant companion since he’d left the service.

Marty was asking him now if he wanted coffee or pop or a beer or something, but he was pouring coffee as he asked, so clearly the other options were only theoretical. Phil took the mug and watched as he maneuvered himself to a berth at the kitchen table.

“And how’s the cancer these days, Marty?” he asked. “Still suck?”

“Still sucks. Thank you for not beating around the fucking bushes. Phil, goddamn, it’s a kick to see you. You look older. I need your help.”

“You were always great at small talk.”

“I was always great at completely screwing up small talk, and I have even less time for it now than I used to. Not wasting any of my limited remaining breaths on it. I need your eyes on this, to tell me if it’s a federal case or just a tired guy with a case of Rear Window-itis. And if it’s real, I need you to use the connections you pretend you don’t have.”

“A federal case?” Phil asked, setting down his coffee mug. He didn’t even try to deny the implication about his connections; that, too was part of their shared history. Marty glanced around reflexively, as though afraid someone might be hiding outside the streaked windows. Phil raised an eyebrow, and went to double check for him. Nothing but empty gravel road, empty cornfield, empty sky, distant barns, scraggly windrow.

“Yep, and I don’t mean Department of the Interior, either. I thought so at one time, but no-- whatever it is, it’s bigger than that.”

“This is a hell of a way to start a brief, Marty.” Marty snorted at him.

“Same old Phil. Fine. Long story short, I think someone’s blackmailing Cousin Dean so they can store some kind of radioactive equipment on his land.” He sat back and waited for Phil’s reaction. Phil blinked at him, and tried to look receptive. After a while, he sighed.

“Okay, Marty? You’re going to have to unpack that a little more for me.” His friend grinned.

“Figured. So, Dean. His land borders mine; he’s got the old White farmstead, you know, like I got Gramma Same’s land. I mostly rent out, how’m I gonna farm shit? Dean, he’s been trying to turn his into a model organic farm. You know, no growth hormones, no pesticides, complementary planting.”

“I know it well enough. Shouldn’t be room for anything radioactive there.”

“Exactly. And yet... I can’t get out much, with this damn leg of mine,” he said, pointing to his remaining leg, “but Dean comes over sometimes to lend me a hand. Once, he had a bunch of equipment in his truck-- no big deal, he does some experimental tenting and grow-light set ups out in the field to try and get longer growing seasons. Tomatoes especially, I think. But I don’t know what part of that involves shit that glows green, Phil.”

“Glows green?”

“Yeah, there was something packed away in a box with edges that didn’t fit right. And it was glowing. Green. So I slipped in and grabbed my geiger counter while he was distracted and yeah, it reads. Low, but not background.”

“Of course you just happened to have a geiger counter handy. Just like I bet you just happen to have a souvenir sniper scope or night vision goggles somewhere. Hell, maybe even a Jeep. Marty... fuck, Marty I’ve missed you.” Phil said, shaking his head in bemusement.

“Didn’t have to.” Marty replied, leaning towards him.

“I suppose not.” The peeling vinyl of the red checked tablecloth suddenly seemed to hold worlds of interest for Phil.

“Don’t look so fucking glum. If you weren’t too busy trying to save the world, you wouldn’t be the man I need right now.”

“Perhaps I need to let the world look after itself once in a while. So, radioactive. Why blackmailed?”

“Okay, a guy that into all-natural farming is going to bring anything that bleeps a geiger counter onto his precious land without a fight? Of course not. Also, this is Dean. He has his tells. Anyone mentions anything about nuclear anything and he just shuts down and growls. Anyone tries to get on his land without permission, he gets the shotgun. Except he’s not getting the shotgun lately, Phil, and I’ve seen trucks coming and going from his land a lot more than normal. So I downloaded those aerials of his land from the internet, and marked down where I think suspicious shit’s been happening. You’ll see the field on the hill above Midlothian Lane. Also, I see a lot of traffic go over the field towards the old water tower.” 

“And you sent them to me because?”

“I can’t get out and move. I don’t have anything hard to go to the cops with, and I don’t trust anyone here. They’re all so fucking inbred you can’t sneeze without hitting a family connection. Who am I gonna trust not to tell the blackmailer, accidentally or on purpose?”

“Stop talking like you’re not long-time Washauwauk, Marty.”

“Hey, my mother’s family only came here during World War I. That makes us pretty near as new as yours.”

“Right, only most of a century apart. I’ll check it out. Hell, I’ve already got friends checking it out.”

“Yeah, I bet you have. Who’s this Natasha, Phil?” Phil acknowledged the hairpin turn in questioning with a lifted eyebrow and a raised coffee mug. The coffee was turning cold and sludgy.

“Asks the man who just finished telling me he talks to no-one in town.”

“I just finished telling you I _trust_ no one in town. I talk to ‘em all. I didn’t exactly expect to hear you were bringing a _girl_ home, let alone the same one twice. Tell me about her.” Marty was leaning forward again, arms crossed on the tabletop. Phil exhaled something that was about halfway to a laugh.

“I’ll do better; I’ll bring her and Clint for a visit before we leave, if you’re up for it and promise not to refer to her as a girl to her face. You’ll like her, Marty. She’ll eat you alive, but you’ll like her. You’ll like them both.”

“Hah. I’m not in shape to go after anybody right now, and anyone who willingly agrees to meet your parents is either way out of my league, crazy, or both. You seen Pamela yet?”

“This morning. Why?”

“She was asking about you recently, I heard.”

“She didn’t say so when I met her at the diner. Is she doing well? She looked good. She told me about her kids, her job, her guy.” Phil looked fascinated by his coffee for a moment, swirling it slowly in his cup. “It sounds... honestly, it sounds pretty much like what we used to talk about in high school. She always knew exactly what she wanted out of life; much better than I did.” He paused, laughing just a little to himself, before he continued. “Or maybe she just knew what I wanted at the time better than I did. Jesus, that could actually have been me.” Marty looked at him sharply.

“Good thing she dumped your ass and I got you out of town then, huh?”

“Hmph. Good right up until you lost a leg and I-- well. You know what I was like. Thanks for the coffee, Marty. I’d better go back and put in an appearance with Elliot and Noah. I’ll let you know what we hear.” He rested one hand gently on Marty’s shoulder as he stood, and took both coffee mugs in his other. Marty glanced up at him as he did, and after a minute, he snorted affectionately. 

“You fucking better.”

**A Spider in City Hall**

Washauwauk’s City Hall was one of the few buildings on Main Street less than a century old. it had clearly been built during the height of that unfortunate architectural period known as “slap some concrete up with pastel metal panels and call it a day already.” The metal had already begun to pit and peel and rust in the vulnerable spaces. 

When Natasha reached it after leaving the Blue Note and meandering a block, she found the doors locked. A sign on the door, in comic sans, said “Closed weekends. After-hours document retrieval and submission, see Betty J. Bialoski at 511 2nd Street. If she’s not home, please leave in the locked bin on her porch. For inquiries or to sign up for the Asian Carp: Menace or Delicacy seminar, please email info@ci.washauwauk.il.us. For after-hours access, please obtain permission from Mayor White.” Instead of doing so, Natasha picked the locks and slipped inside.

A corkboard just inside the door on the left held public announcements as well as directions. Archives was in the basement, the town planner’s office was as well. The sign next to and half covering them informed the public that the public comments period on the Same Old Place’s petition for an exemption from the local liquor regulations was now closed, and that the petition would be brought up at the next board meeting in a month. 

Natasha marked the archives and town planners office, and slipped down the emergency stairs to the basement. 

The archives were easily found, and consisted of several ranks of large, steel-blue filing cabinets, not even locked. Sorting through a filing system that was clearly the work of a single, sadly deranged, mind took longer. In the background, a wall clock clicked and buzzed and the dust re-settled itself where Natasha passed. The air was stuffy and still.

When found (in a filing cabinet otherwise occupied with new construction permits) the latest property tax rolls showed that the parcels Phil’s friend had marked were all owned by Dean White, Erwin White or, in the case of one parcel that had recently become joint due to marriage, Heather (White) Watson. Then again, Whites were endemic. Whites appeared on the property tax rolls of over half the property in the town, plus one street and one avenue, a car dealership, the letterhead of the local soil and water conservation board, made up several of the members of the zoning commission, and were memorialized on the community bandshell.

There were no recent permits for any of Dean White’s land, but Erwin was clearly following his Mayoral niece’s lead. He had recently been approved for extensive infrastructure reconstruction for aquaculture work. He’d even received a small loan to hook him up to the town sewer system. However, according to Marty’s circles and arrows, it was Dean’s land that was seeing what looked like construction traffic. Natasha frowned and took pictures of it all with her cameraphone, but she had to admit that there was so far little evidence of anything beyond a little family favoritism.

As she was putting the permits back in their cabinets, she caught sight of Leo Brown’s application for the Same Old Place’s exemption. It had been approved two days previously, signed by Mary White. Natasha tilted her head just slightly as she looked at it and, after a moment’s hesitation, added it to her photograph collection, then turned to slink back up the stairs.

She was out of the stairwell and halfway to the door when she heard the voice coming from the room that opened off the opposite side of the hallway. The one that had a big placard reading _Mayor Mary L.White_.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, NO.” said the person in the Mayor’s office, in a voice more than loud enough to carry the distance of the hall, and Natasha slid halfway behind a pedestal with a bronze statuette of a leaping fish and tried to stay out of sight. There was a pause, as if the woman was listening to someone on the end of a phone line. 

“Look, I’ve taken care of it, he’s not going to say anything.” Natasha molded herself to the fish, and settled in to wait.

“No I really don’t care. I don’t see the-- all right, stop yelling. I get it already. But I don’t see the problem if a _few_ get out. It’s not like they’ll pass it on or anything.” The low tapping on the edge of Natasha’s hearing must be a pen or pencil getting rapped against the desk in the other room.

“What’s that got to do with me? So they get a little extra aggressive, what’s so horrible about that? Keeps the riff raff out. Look I know... Yes, but it’s not... Darn it, I’m just.... STU, SHUT UP.” Stu must have shut up on the other end, because the woman continued “Look, I’ll handle him, too. He’s worried about his own land, when this is so much bigger than that. This is our legacy to the town. The TOWN, Stu. You are not going to stop now. I’ll tell _him_ that, too. Listen to me; I’d hate to have to sic Erwin on either of you. Yes, well, see that you do do it. Goodbye, Stu.” The woman hung up, or probably did, because a few seconds after that, with Natasha still frozen in place in the shadows behind the fish, the chair creaked as she lifted herself up. Her feet disappeared from behind the desk.

The fish was going to provide no kind of concealment if the woman actually came out into the hall. The ceiling was high and of that stupid drop variety that was all pasteboard and flimsy metal grids. The route to the stairwell would take her right past the line-of-sight from the office door. Natasha broke cover and made a dash for the exit. She’d burst through the interior set of doors and was pressed against the unyielding push bar to the outer set, sliding out her lockpicks, when a voice behind her said:

“What the tarnation are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time:  
> Talking Alien Fish Blues: Clint’s endured worse, maybe- family sticks together- right and wrong ways to handle Phil
> 
> Fish Fly: fishing with the boys- carp attack!- here be monsters


	6. Talking Alien Fish Blues/ Fish Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking Alien Fish Blues  
> Clint’s endured worse, maybe- family sticks together- right and wrong ways to handle Phil
> 
> Fish Fly  
> fishing with the boys- carp attack!- here be monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Talking Alien Fish Blues**

Clint was still at the Blue Note Diner while Natasha was deep in the bowels of the Washauwauk City Hall. One by one, the White women had peeled away and left for more productive activities, leaving Clint and Dean sprawled at the diner table. Well, Clint was sprawled, anyway, and trying not to get distracted by the vast quantity of _nothing_ around to distract himself with. Dean was still telling stories. It might have been easier to pay attention had they not all come back to the subject of how Dean himself was so very misused, but Clint had been trained to endure all sorts of hardship in the pursuit of his objectives. It was just that they mostly involved more sitting still for long periods of time in inclement weather, and less sitting still and maintaining interest in the face of a serious ramble.

Suddenly, a word dropped in his ear, and he looked up. Dean was still going on, scratching his scraggle-bedecked chin with one horny hand. 

“I mean, it just goes to show, and I wasn’t surprised at all when he went to Chicago with that ‘breakdown,’ no sir.” Dean was saying. “Just goes to show-- probably drugs of some kind.”

“Pot, you mean? It has to be easy to hide that around here.”

“Pot? No, no, that’s nothing. Hell, a good section of the town probably has some in their backyard, and the rest don’t do nothing about it because they’re related. Anyway, that’s more your friend’s Daddy’s line. No, it’s gotta be steroids or meth or crack or whatever kids do these days.”

“Ritalin mostly, I thought,” Clint couldn’t resist. Dean glared at him from under the worn brim of his cap and grunted.

“Yeah, that’s another thing: too damn much diagnosing. But no, you don’t have to hide that, and he was hiding all right. You don’t go up to the damn water tower just to pop some prescription candy. Must’a had some kinda heavy stuff to bust Erwin’s boys up so bad, anyway. Leo, he got the kid out of town fast after that. That’s what’s wrong with those Browns. They never trust us to help, you know? Everyone to their own, and I doubt he even told Pamela what exactly went down. That’s wrong. Family should trust family.” Dean was looking into his coffee cup now like it had personally offended him. The coffee itself was perfectly decent diner coffee, and had done nothing to deserve it.

“You Whites seem to hold together well,” Clint set out the bait, and Dean snorted explosively.

“Yeah, we stick together no matter what. Whites take care of Whites all right.” He might have said more, or he might not have, but at that moment Gary Coulson came in the door. He greeted Deanne where she turned from her work Windexing the pie safe, and then ambled over to Clint.

“Band practice starting in about fifteen over at the Same Old Place; wanted to make sure you hadn’t gotten lost.” Clint grinned up at him.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Gary laughed.

“That’s unusual to hear, from anyone connected with my son. How’d he end up with a friend who has _taste_ in music?” 

“Oh, he hunted me down and shot me in the leg, or so the rumor goes,” Clint said, getting up to go with him. “Dean, it was good to chat. You wear a helmet out on the water or something; you wouldn’t want to explain how a fish gave you a concussion to the docs.” Dean grumbled a goodbye as they left.

“Dean going on about silver carp again?” Gary asked him as they walked. He apparently answered his own question, because he continued with “He does that a lot. They arrived in Fernton creek a couple of years back, and he takes it personally. Well, a lot of us do. That damn cousin of his, though. She swears they’ll put us on the map.” He snorted. “If I’d wanted that, I’d have damn well stayed in Chicago. I _like_ Washauwauk small and sleepy, goddamn it.” There was a brief pause, as they scuffed down the street together towards the old brown brick profile of the Same Old Place. Eventually, he shook his head a little. “I guess Phil didn’t, though. He never forgave us for the move, I think.”

“Oh?” Clint said, in an encouraging tone of voice.

“Well, the Captain America obsession got worse after that. And then he took up scouting. And then JROTC. I don’t know if he did it to fit in or just to piss me off, but if it was fitting in he was after, it didn’t work.” Clint carefully did not say _it clearly did piss you off, though_. He did say:

“The idea of Phil Coulson as a teenager rebelling by being a Boy Scout before running away to join the Army is taking some getting used to.”

“Well, it did for us, too. He had enough friends here to give him roots and he was interested in teaching, like his Mom. Even despite me, he might have stayed after all if Pamela hadn’t turned him down when he proposed.”

Clint had raised both eyebrows at the mention of “teaching,” so they had nothing to do but press further upwards at the end of the sentence. Gary saw the look on his face, and his smile was rueful.

“Then again,” he continued, “He has always done the opposite of what I’d like, so I can’t blame Pamela-- or Marty, even-- that much. If I’d have been smart, I’d have taken him down to the recruiting office myself. That would have practically guaranteed he’d stay.”

“That why you don’t talk to Natasha much?” Clint asked, enlightened.

“Maybe,” Gary nodded his head. “She’s got the spirit needed to stand up to my dear wife, you know. I know Kelley picked up on that-- she’s always looking for an ally. I just wish I saw it actually lasting. I'd hoped, after the wedding, but something's changed. Deborah’s more worried about Natasha; she doesn’t realize how much worse it could be. She’ll figure that out someday, but I’m not going to be the one to tell her. I like a quiet life, and I don’t like to argue with my wife. Even when I think she’s fighting her battles the wrong way.”

“And what’s the right way, you think?” They were nearly at the door to the bar, now, and Gary put a hand on it, turning to look over his shoulder at Clint.

“With Phil? Don’t fight it at all. And keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” Then he opened the door and turned to lead Clint into the gloom of the interior.

**Fish Fly**

“Uncle Phil! Uncle Phil! I got one!”

Phil turned, to see the smaller of his nephews halfway out of the rowboat, being tugged along by a fishing line bending the rod in a nearly full arc. His tangled mop of hair was in his eyes. Phil dropped the hook he was baiting for Elliot, and lunged for Noah. Just as he was latching on to the belt loop at the back of the boy’s pants, Noah raised one hand to brush his bangs away and rod sprang away in his loosened grip. He caromed backwards into Phil, who braced himself just before they went over the far end of the boat. 

He moved his arm so it was wrapped around Noah’s fat life-jacketed midsection, and tried to regulate his breathing. When he caught his brother’s wide eyes, he saw that Reuben was having a similar reaction. Elliot was laughing hysterically, his own fishing rod flopping loose in his hand as he shook.

Then he dropped it over the side, and it promptly turned reel-downwards and sunk. They all followed its progress in silence.

“Well.” Reuben said, “I guess that about does it for fishing.” And he turned to start the outboard motor. Phil chuckled, and began to put away his own rod and tidy up the tackle box. Noah and Elliot whined a bit, staring back over the stern as the boat started to churn back up the creek.

It was late afternoon, hardly the best time for fishing, and they had only three medium-sized largemouths in the boat’s well. Fernton Creek widened very nearly into a lake about a half mile up from where it met the river, running close to parallel to the river for most of its length. Washauwauk stretched out along the creek, the tiny downtown hugging the end nearest the river, the farms trailing along the county road back up along the creek. Reuben angled them back towards the town, where his SUV and boat trailer were waiting at the public access point just outside the intake and treatment plant for the town’s water systems. 

They were nearly back, the sun in front of them low and golden, when the first fish hit. It sailed out of the water over the small boat’s bows, over the boys’ bent heads, and slammed into the seat next to Reuben with a sickening thwack. Reuben jumped a foot in the air and his hand left the tiller. The boat started to swing towards his last pull, as several more fat silvery fish popped out of the water in front of them, then dozens, churning it into a froth. Fish were raining on their heads as Reuben struggled to regain control of the motor. Phil had shoved Noah and Elliot under the bench seats at the first volley, and now Elliot popped his head up to whisper 

“Cooooool” in an awed voice, before a fish bounced off the bench above him and splattered him with guts and fins. “GACK,” he managed as he popped back under.

Noah was whimpering into his hands. 

“What the fuck is this?” Phil yelled at his brother, fending off incoming fish with an oar. 

“Fucking Asian fucking carp. They’re all over further down the fucking river,” Reuben shouted back, ducking one as large as his head-- easily measured as it sailed over the boat within two inches of his ear. “Didn’t realize they’d come so far up the goddamn creek.”

“They don’t like the motor?”

“No shit, brother. Makes ‘em mad. We’re nearly there.” Reuben pointed at the squat 1970s vintage buildings on the waterfront. The carp leapt in even greater frequencies as they slanted across the channel towards shore. Phil’s oar was getting slick with fishguts and scales, but he was intercepting the majority of the carp, until something huge and iridescent in the light rocketed from the water and headed for the boat. He side-swiped it with the oar, and caught sight of a rolling green eye and belly as it flashed past. The carp hit the benches above the children with a smash and flopped into the bottom of the boat.

“Dad! Dad! Dad! It’s getting me! It’s getting me!” Noah screamed. Phil realized the fish was half-tangled in the net in front of Noah and was flailing wildly, whapping Noah with its tail each time it did. The boy couldn’t retreat far enough under the benches to get away.

“Elliot,” he bellowed, because he was too far away to do it himself, “the net! Grab the handle. Get it to me.” Elliot was frozen for a moment, and then Noah shrieked again and Phil watched his hand shoot out from under the bench and wrestle the long handle of the net upwards. It caught on the bench several times before he had it in Phil’s reach.

Phil heaved with all his strength, and managed to pop the net up like a catapult, sending the fish flying back into the river and dragging the net out of his hands.

“Shit,” Reuben said with feeling. 

Noah went back to whimpering.

“That wasn’t normal? Right?” Phil gasped, reclaiming his oar.

“Fuck no.”

“Okay, the-- INCOMING.” Phil had the oar in the air before he could finish his shout, and smacked the second of the monstrous green fish right in its gaping maw as it came over the bows.

It exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like a video reference for the carp attack? Want it with bonus David Tennant narration? Clicky [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=tLmJjRqXDCo%20).
> 
> Next Time: 
> 
> In the Mayor’s Den  
> The Honorable Mayor of Washauwauk- Natasha explains herself- the carp of Lake Victoria
> 
> The Close Enough to Fernton Boys  
> Meeting the Boys (plus Delores)- all we need is the dynamite- introducing Mandy- the ass-end of Kyrgyzstan- Clint is flattered, really


	7. In the Mayor's Den/ The Close Enough to Fernton Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Mayor’s Den  
> The Honorable Mayor of Washauwauk-Natasha explains herself- the carp of Lake Victoria
> 
> The Close Enough to Fernton Boys  
> Meeting the boys (plus Deloris)- all we need is the dynamite- introducing Mandy- the ass-end of Kyrgyzstan- Clint is flattered, really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, even when I don't post it, thanks to my lovely beta, currently beta-ing from Paris. That you are not being swamped in a sea of adjectives in this chapter is due to her. I fiddled with it after the last time she saw it, so all mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> For all of you who are reading along THANK YOU for indulging my weird obsession with silver carp and stories where characters continually get interrupted just when it gets really interesting.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**In the Mayor’s Den**

“I asked what you were doing in here!” The woman advancing towards Natasha could have been twice her size, and it was mostly muscle. Her pantsuit might have come from the closet of a woman two sizes smaller and about a decade older, and her arms and shoulders bulged like sausages from the jacket. She sported what was either a vastly overgrown mullet or a very scraggly set of mall bangs. She belonged on a hockey rink more than in city hall. Unlikely as it seemed, there was little doubt this was the honorable Mayor of Washauwauk herself. 

“I stopped by to try and find the schedule for one of those Asian carp seminars, to see if one would be while I was in town.” Natasha said, turning to re-balance herself discreetly on the balls of her feet. “The door was open, so I came in. Was that not right?”

“Door should be locked, young lady.”

“It is, now that I try to get out.” Natasha shrugged and tossed her hair. “Not very convenient. Can you let me out?” Mayor White narrowed her eyes and made no move to help her. 

“Aren’t you that girl that Phil Coulson’s dating? What would you want with one of our seminars?”

“News travels fast in town.”

“Stop by the Blue Note in the morning, and by lunchtime everyone will know just how you take your coffee.” The Mayor was standing between her and the interior doors, filling them too completely for Natasha to slip by without an inconvenient show of aggression.

“And how do I take my coffee?”

“In a cup. What’s a New York jet set kind of girl like you doing looking for fishery seminars?”

“You know we work with the International Monetary Fund?” Natasha asked, playing for time and moving slightly to the right, trying to get the Mayor to move with her. 

“I’d heard.”

“Well, I thought if you were really making advancements on fish farm equipment for carp, that might be something we’d be interested in funding... around Lake Victoria, for instance.” The Mayor’s face was a blank. “You know, in Africa.”

“Oh, yes, of course. You think they’d be interested in our methods, in Africa?”

“Do you know how big their carp grow in Lake Victoria?” Natasha didn’t, but it seemed like a safe bet that Mayor White would be equally ignorant. “Bring them any kind of equipment that can handle that size of fish, and you’re sure to find a funder.”

“Well! You’ve come to the right place all right. We’re not just updating the equipment, let me tell you about the fish breeding program.” The Mayor advanced on her, scooped her under one massive bicep, and popped the front door with her hex key. “Let me take you to the Blue Note and tell you all about the new feed we’re using. We’ve been able to increase the feed conversion rate using specially cultivated phytoplankton. It’s not easily portable technology as yet, but with a little funding....”

It was very clear by that point that the honorable Mayor of Washauwauk was not only well-versed on her favorite topic, she had an evangelist’s enthusiasm and at least several hours to kill in conversation. Given that the silver carp were clearly at the center of whatever was-- rotten. Not fishy, rotten-- in Washauwauk, it was best to let their booster talk as much as she was willing. It was certainly a less physically painful prospect than nearly any of the previous times the Black Widow had allowed herself to be captured and monologued at. Still, Natasha looked back longingly over her shoulder, but no-one was coming to rescue her.

**The Close Enough to Ferton Boys**

“I’m telling you, we’ve exhausted all the other options. This is the only one left.” 

Clint paused in the low light of the Same Old Place’s entryway, then set the black soft side carrier down at his feet so that he could brace himself with both hands. He pushed himself as close to the door as he could get without being noticed. 

Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d walked through this same entryway in the wake of Gary Coulson, still reeling a bit from the end of their conversation. In the dim light that filtered through high, dingy windows, he could see a fairly mismatched group of people gathered around the stage to their right, shifting microphones and mixers into place. On the left, a tall man with thinning curly hair and an impressive moustache was carefully replacing one of the beer pulls behind the counter. 

“This is Clint, a friend of Phil’s.” Gary had said. “He listened to my records for an hour without screaming once, so I figured I’d better bring him by.” The group rapidly sorted itself out and sent forward a delegation to greet Clint.

“Hi, I’m Deloris Watson,” said the small jolly woman. She had the face of a kitten and a generally fluffy demeanor. “And this is my husband, Tilt.” Tilt tilted downwards the full foot it took him to be able to wrap his arm around his wife’s shoulders. 

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“Hey,” Clint told them both, shaking hands.

“Deloris here sings and plays accordion or mandolin, and Eddie-- that’s Tilt-- plays either guitar or bass, depending on our needs. Mikey Brant-- that’s him at the back-- he plays fiddle, and he sings.”

“And you play guitar?” Clint asked, and Gary nodded.

“And banjo. It’s not much to write home about. Weekly gig here, that’s about it. Occasional weddings. But it gives us something to keep us out of trouble. Deloris, is everything set up?”

“It is, hon. Clint, honey, do you play, or just listen?” Her eyes were huge and milky blue in her crinkly feline face and Clint blinked.

“That’s some kind of instrument case I saw you stuffing in Phil’s trunk last night,” Gary teased him. “So don’t tell me you don’t play. Question is: do you play the blues?”

“No, the question is: do you want to jam with us?” Mikey asked, coming up to the group. He was a slender young man with a shock of blonde hair and a genial grin. Clint grinned back.

“I’m strictly amateur,” he began, but the Close Enough to Fernton Boys were having none of it, and in the end, he’d been sent back to his motel room to grab his instrument case.

Which was how he’d come to be in the same entryway for the second time in fifteen minutes, clutching Mandy in her case. It was also how he was overhearing the current conversation.

“I don’t like it.” That was Mikey’s light voice. The four were gathered by the stage to the right of the door, setting up chairs for their performance in the evening. “It’s wrong. We call the cops.”

 

“And what, they maybe arrest someone _after_ things are an irretrievable mess? Or arrest _us_ for something-- don’t forget who the chief is, and half his crew.” That voice must be Deloris. “No. They have to be taken out, for the good of the community. My god, can you imagine what would happen if they got out?”

“We’ve talked about this anyway, Mikey,” Gary’s voice was light and even. “And you lost the vote. The only question is when, and I say the reunion is a great opportunity. Half of Washauwauk will be at the high school, so they can’t get in our way.” 

“Oh, yes,” Deloris said, “Good point, Gary. We need a meeting place and signal.”

“Out back of the old barns at the old Same place, then? I’ve got things stored out there that could help. And I think we’ll recognize each other without the signal.”

“Good!” Even her voice had a bit of a kitten purr. “Then all we need is the dynamite. Tilt?”

Tilt muttered something about sheds and beaver dams, and the others-- for a wonder-- seemed to actually understand what he was talking about.

“That’s taken care of, then.” Gary said, “During the reunion it is.”

At that point, Leo Brown came back into the main room of his bar and saw Clint, who stepped forward into the light before the man could out him.

“There you are!” Gary called to him. “C’mon over and show us what you’ve got.”

Clint obliged, setting the case on a nearby table and slowly unzipping it. Mandy winked up at him in all her dusky glory, and he slid her free of her case.

“What’s that, a Dragonfly?” Gary asked him, and Clint nodded. “Bass. Huh. I guess I’d assumed guitar. That what’s in your other case?”

“Nope,” said Clint, as he settled Mandy over his shoulder, “That’s my bow.” Tilt wandered over while Gary was still, from his silence, considering his options for response.

“Fretless,” Tilt sighed, glancing over Mandy. “Lovely lady. Hey, Gary, if Clint joins us, you can do banjo on Cowboy Singer, and we can do two guitars on Angel. Wanna sit in tonight, Clint?”

Clint looked up at him from his tuning, and said “You might want to hear me play first.”

“What,” Gary asked him, a faint, very Coulson smile tracing its way across his lips, “Don’t think you’re any good?”

“Au contraire, my friend,” Clint said, “I’m awesome. Mandy and I have played before the crowned heads of Europe. Well, head. Well, lost heir to the grand duchy of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, though I really hope he wasn’t. Not a very upstanding representative of the family, all things considered.”

“You travel a lot, man?” Tilt was still watching Mandy, now that Clint was letting his fingers slide down her neck.

“All over. All the time, mostly with Phil and Nat. And Mandy here, when I’ve got room in the luggage. The nice thing about bringing a bass over a guitar is that everyone assumes you want to jam, because they figure you must need someone to do the melody. It’s a great way to, ah, get to know the locals. And if you don’t mind bass solos, it’s great for downtime, too, when you’re stuck in the ass-end of Kyrgyzstan.” Or when you’re stuck in the ass-end of Michigan on training missions. In point of fact, Clint did own a guitar, but so did Agent Sitwell. Sitwell had a hidden fondness for the Cure, Clint knew a little everything, and it was rare anymore that they had the chance to play together. Bringing Mandy’d been a no-brainer.

“Have you been?” Deloris asked, coming up to sit on the stage and put her chin in her hands. “Stuck in Kyrgyzstan?”

“Hell yeah, and I’d still be there, too, if it weren’t for Phil. Our transport was diverted and we’d lost our papers and our camels,we didn’t have any cash, my leg was broken, and no one spoke the language. That’s the kind of challenge Coulson lives for.” 

From the stage, Phil’s father gave his guitar with a distinctly viscous twang, followed by an aggressive twist of the tuning knob.

“Let’s get started, guys, you can talk after. Clint, we’re doing ‘Never Did No Wanderin’, do you know it?”

“Nope. But I’ll listen.” He looked up at Gary quietly. 

Practice lasted about two hours, and Clint never did get a chance to do more than say hi to Leo Brown, who wandered in and out looking a bit lost in his own bar. As they were packing up, Tilt, Mikey and Deloris each asked Clint to come that evening, and Deloris squeezed his bicep as she did so, giggling. Clint followed her with a bemused smile as she walked out, then turned back to Gary.

“I do appreciate you bringing me here,” he said, “I like the band.”

“Good,” Gary’s return smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You coming tonight, then? You don’t want to disappoint Deloris.” Clint met his gaze.

“I’ll try. I was going to ask Phil and Nat what they were doing, but I’d guess Phil will be here.”

“Maybe. He doesn’t much like the music, or the Boys.”

“Uh huh. Mr. Coulson?”

“Really, Clint: Gary.”

“Yeah, Gary. Look, I know what you’re doing here.”

“What am I doing here?”

“Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. I’m flattered, just so you understand. I don’t think I’m the kind of threat you think I am, but I’m flattered. And now I’m going to meet him and the boys down by the creek.” He slung Mandy over his shoulder and walked out.

__

As he turned the corner from the bar, his steps slowed and he started scuffing a bit, kicking pebbles out of his way. A few blocks took him to the edge of town and down to the dock. He looked out over the water, and saw a moving disturbance that resolved itself into a frothy churn of leaping fish as it drew near, and a small boat in the middle of it, Phil standing tall in the bows and wielding a vicious oar.

As he watched, a fish the size and color of a baby crocodile launched itself out of the water. 

Phil disintegrated it.

Clint set Mandy down blindly, his eyes fixed on the group in the boat, and searched about him for anything to use as a weapon that could help at that distance. He managed to find a couple rocks and a cleft stick, and began searching his pockets for something to use as a slingshot. “This is why we never go anywhere without a projectile weapon,” he muttered as he dug inside the lining pocket of his jacket. “ _This_ is why we never go _anywhere_ without a projectile weapon.” 

On the boat, Phil was attempting to scrape goo from his eyes when he was hit by several carp at once. He staggered backwards into Elliot, who had just emerged from under his bench. Elliot fell backwards into Reuben, and the entire boat swerved heavily to port as Reuben grabbed at his son with both hands to prevent him going overboard. Elliot ended up back in the bottom of the boat, and Phil reeled but came up with his oar.

Phil fouled off fish to either side as they neared the shore. Elliot’s face popped up over the side of the boat, covered in fish gunk, eyes wide. The carp finally were dying back down, and Clint began to let himself relax, when one flung itself like a silvery grenade past Phil’s outstretched arm and straight at the stern. Elliot rose with a barbaric yawp and flung a small cooler at it. Fish and cooler tumbled into the creek together. 

That was mostly the end of it; a few belated fish popped here and there off the bows as they approached. Phil stared at his gore-covered oar as Reuben gingerly brought them to the dock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the Boys:  
> You’ll notice a certain equivocation in the notes and text on what exactly the Close Enough to Fernton Boys play. The short answer is: whatever they want. The longer answer is they’re one of those bands that happens when you’re in a musician-short community and several of you have mostly compatible tastes and few other options. Their instrument set-up is mostly bluegrass, but their repertoire ends up leaning more towards folk and blues, with some old country thrown in.
> 
> Next Time:
> 
> Clean Up  
> The warriors return- they were like that when I found them
> 
> No Stomach for It  
> Natasha reconsidered- a quick exchange- another quick exchange
> 
> Not Talking About Fish  
> talking about fish- talking about Clint- ill-timed reminiscences


	8. Clean Up/No Stomach For It/ Not Talking About Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clean Up  
> The warriors return- they were like that when I found them
> 
> No Stomach for It  
> Natasha reconsidered- a quick exchange- another quick exchange
> 
> Not Talking About Fish  
> talking about fish- talking about Clint- ill-timed reminiscences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Clean-Up**

Clint met the boat, barely bothering to hide his slack-jawed shock. He looked Phil and Reuben over as they struggled out, then helped Elliot, who was shaking. Reuben ducked back in to coax Noah out into his arms. Every single one of them was covered head to toe in a sort of red goo, flecked with fish bones and fins.

It was Clint who found his voice first. 

“Next time, sir, might want to take me along on your fishing trip.” 

Phil paused for a moment, then nodded-- just a tiny little shake of his bowed head. “Yeah,” he breathed. “There’s an idea.”

Reuben looked from one to the other, as Elliot snorted.

“Why? How’d you have helped?” Clint smiled down at the truculence in the boy’s tone.

“Your uncle never told you? I’ve got a bow, and good aim.” Elliot gaped a little and seemed to regain some life.

“You _bowfish_? That’s so _cool_.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “something like that.”

“Can you teach me? Dad! Can Clint teach me to bowfish? Joey White says his daddy used to! Hey! Hey, waitaminute Uncle Phil what, not the wate-- ulp!” His uncle had unceremoniously picked him up and stepped off the dock into the water, scrubbing them both until the worst of the goo floated away. Reuben did the same for Noah, who was still sobbing fitfully. Clint pulled both the boys up and onto dry land while the men dragged their sodden selves to shore. Elliot looked up at Clint, embarrassment written all over his face, and Clint gave him a tiny extra squeeze as he set him down. 

He let his little brother cling to his legs while the men loaded the boat onto its trailer, loaded the fishing gear into the minivan, put down black plastic bags on the back seats, and loaded the children into them. They didn’t talk much at all.

Natasha and Kelley met them in front of the house. Kelley’s hands went to her mouth as her husband extricated himself from the car and she caught sight of his drenched form. 

Natasha muttered “can’t let you boys out alone” to Clint as he came up to prop the front door open for the others. He side-eyed her.

“I had nothing to do with this. Nothing. They were like this when I found them.”

“Oh, I see. It could have been worse, then.”

“Hey, I would have helped. I’m great with boats.”

Kelley slipped past the two as they argued on the steps and went to collect her sons from the back seat.

**No Stomach for It**

No one had any stomach for the fish fry Deborah had promised the prospective fishermen when they’d set out after lunch. They ordered pizza from the limited menu at the Same Old Place. Clint set off to pick it up with only one wry backward glance at Natasha as she found herself standing in the middle of the living room without a concrete role to play in the domestic drama.

She watched a freshly-scrubbed Elliot closely as his grandmother cosseted him and brought him soda and cookies. Fifteen minutes earlier, Kelley had taken Noah upstairs in her arms, and Reuben, Elliot and Phil had waged a silent race for the shower. Elliot had emerged from the bath first and been brought straight to the living room to lie on the couch. His earlier manic babble had receded, and he sat fidgeting under his grandmother’s attention. He finally turned towards Natasha, eyes limpid, and she sighed and gave him a firm nod.

“Phil tells me you did well.” she told him. He shook his head.

“I just did what Uncle Phil told me with the net and I hid most of the time.” She smiled back at his red face.

“I hear you did more than that. But that was good, too. You kept your head and ensured your own safety and your brother’s.” She paused, uncertain what else to say. 

“I froze,” he admitted after a while. “Uncle Phil had to shout at me. And he cleaned me up after, like a little kid.”

“Oh, that happens to Clint all the time, and he’s supposedly an adult.” She kept her face utterly straight for a long beat before winking. Elliot gave her a side-smile so close to his uncle’s that she kept her keep her mouth shut rather than ruin it.

A moment later, she noticed Deborah was looking at her steadily, her lips pursed a little, obviously considering. Natasha met her eyes, and got a minute eyebrow lift in return, followed by a little twitch of a smile.

She tossed off something about helping Gary in the kitchen and fled. The sounds from the upstairs hallway seemed to indicate that all the showers were finished, and she ran into Phil coming back down the stairs in his knits. He no longer exuded eau de fish, and she told him as much.

“Thank heavens for small mercies, anyway. Natasha...” he lowered his voice and glanced around the hallway with all its open doors, then brushed his lips against her ear. “Tell me you’ve found something useful,” he breathed. She shook her head and tilted it in towards him.

“Lots of pieces, anyway. I have an idea about the carp; I talked with the Mayor. She’s trying to alter the fish somehow, to make them grow faster and bigger for quicker harvests. I need to talk to research tonight.” She slid her fingertips through the hair at the nape of his neck, then down to the small of his back, easing him closer. He brought one hand up to her waist, the touch feather light. 

“With two of the fish, they’d certainly succeeded. We don’t have much to go on-- hold on. Um, hi, Dad.” Phil jerked upright and put a little distance between them, though he stayed in Natasha’s arms. Gary smiled a tight smile and shifted in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Don’t mind me, kids. I’ll just see how your Mother and Elliot are doing.” He moved around them towards the door to the living room, but paused for a moment opposite Phil. “I’m glad you’re taking care of him, Natasha,” he said. He patted his son on the shoulder as he passed. “And I’m glad you’re... I’m glad you’re handling it, Phil.” He nodded once, twice, as if returning his own gesture.

Natasha looked at Phil, arms still around his waist, and raised an eyebrow. He was staring after his father. 

“Did he see you after Budapest?” she whispered. Phil blinked.

“No, not then. After my last deployment. It was bad enough, in retrospect. To make it worse, he had stopped talking to me when I joined the Army.”

“You talk now,” she reminded him, when he seemed to be getting lost in the past.

“We argue now,” Phil corrected her. He gave her waist a squeeze and made to slip away, but stopped half-turned. Clint was in the doorway, watching. He looked from one to the other, then tilted his head to the side, as if he was trying to see the image in a Magic Eye poster.

“Cute,” he said. Then: “Pizza?” Natasha glared at him and finished disentangling herself from Phil. 

“I’ll take it,” she said, before pausing to pull something from her pocket. “Here’s a copy of the relevant property rolls,” she said as she held a data card out to Phil. “For whatever use they are to you.”

“Homework tonight, I think,” he told her. “I have an idea.” She kissed him on the cheek, slid the pizzas from Clint’s unprotesting grip, and wandered through the open doorway to the living room. A moment later the two men, still frozen in place in the hallway, heard her greeting Elliot by asking how he liked anchovies. Phil closed his eyes and brought one hand up to the bridge of his nose.

“Hey.” There was a soft touch on his knuckles. Clint was suddenly much closer, bringing his hand down to his side and squeezing before he dropped it. “How are the boys?”

“Starting to recover a little. I think Elliot will be fine once he’s had a chance to talk through it. I don’t know about Noah, but George will probably stay close tonight.”

“I really should have been on that boat.”

“Clint,” It came out less as a laugh and more as a groan, “aren’t you taking this security cover a little seriously? It was just a couple of-- admittedly outsized-- fish.” 

“One of which frickin’ exploded. But who says I’m talking about protecting you, huh? Maybe I’m just mad I missed out on the adventure. Although-- shit. Look, does ‘homework’ mean you’re planning on staying in tonight?”

“Yes. Sorry, did you need me not to?”

“No, it’s-- would it be okay if I came by the window again? We’ve got to talk.”

“I thought Dad had claimed you tonight, for the Boys? Or did you decide they weren’t your crowd?” 

“No, yeah, he did, but I think I can skip till the second set. This won’t wait for tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,”Phil said, biting back a smile.“I’ll wait up.”

A sharp bark announced Reuben, Kelley, George the dog and Noah, who all came down the stairs in a mad bundle. Clint and Phil were swept before them into the next room.

**Not Talking About Fish**

 

The living room was set for a picnic, with an ancient Army blanket down over the rug and half the sofa cushions arranged around it. Natasha and Elliot were already seated, talking in hushed tones while Gary finished bringing out glasses. Deborah didn’t say a word as the group came in, but her eyes when she looked at her older son were creased with worry. The family sprawled out to eat, in tacit agreement not to mention anything even remotely fish-like.

Elliot was apparently not in on that agreement, because he promptly told his grandmother that Clint could _bowfish_ and he was going to _teach Elliot_. His parents’ protestations that nothing had been decided fell on deaf ears. Elliot merely turned to Phil and Natasha and asked if either of them had ever seen Clint shoot.

“Lots of times,” Natasha said with a shrug. “It would be impossible to avoid. My favorite was the time we watched him practice his old circus shots on the slope of Mount Etna at dawn. Do you remember, Phil?”

Phil blinked at her. Clint stared at her. And Elliot sat straight up and exclaimed:

“You were in the _circus_? Oh my god, Joey White is going to _die_. Were there elephants and lions and tigers and things? Was there a lion tamer? What about clowns? You said you hate clowns.”

“Not fond of clowns, no,” Clint said, drawing the words out as he attempted a conversation with Natasha conducted solely through an exchange of glares and raised eyebrows. The attempt would have been more successful had she not been watching Phil, her face impassive. “But yes, I was, and yes, we had several. It wasn’t for that long.”

Phil’s first surprise was how well his father had controlled himself; Phil had thanked him briefly for that afterwards. He hadn’t said a word about the circus, for instance, not even when Noah started suggesting they make George part of a bare-back riding act. Phil’s only memory of the circus as a child was that his father would rant for fifteen minutes whenever he caught the ads for one in the papers, and yet Gary’d simply asked a couple of questions about Clint’s training then changed the subject. From the way he’d eyed Clint as he did so, Phil could tell he saw how uncomfortable he was on the topic, despite the easy way he’d reeled off his safe stories when prompted.

After the circus talk had died down, Clint had agreed, pending parental approval, to take Elliot out with the bow while he was in town. Reuben had glanced at Phil again-- and that was becoming tiring-- before giving a qualified yes. Gary hadn’t said anything about that, either. 

Not much he could have said, to be fair, would have beaten Deborah’s “well, I hope you all know what you’re doing,” which had the advantage of repressing Elliot, raising Kelley’s hackles, and causing Clint to go red-faced and blinky in a way that would have gone viral as a .gif.

The second surprise was that Reuben had voluntarily returned to the Mount Etna remark, perhaps as a way of papering over the trail of destruction his mother had wrought. 

“You sent me a postcard from Sicily, I remember that, Phil. That was years ago. Were the three of you together there? Have you worked together that long?” By that time, Noah and Elliot were each collapsed in the arms of a parent, and George was snoring lightly on the floor. The pizza had been nearly entirely consumed, and Clint was stripping the box of any lingering gobbets of cheese.

“Longer,” Natasha replied for Phil, picking anchovies off her pizza with delicate fingers, “by a couple years for me. Phil and Clint were already a team when Clint brought me into the mix, so they’ve pretty much been at this forever. Right?” She looked from Phil, to Clint, and back. Clint stared right back at her as he responded.

“A few years longer, yeah. I’m not sure how we managed without you.”

“Neither am I. You need _someone_ sensible on the team.” Deborah, to the shock of nearly everyone around the pizza boxes, smiled at her.

“That’s not Phil’s role?” Kelley asked, diverted. Natasha and Clint both snorted. Phil looked at the ceiling.

“Phil runs the best-managed, best-planned, most detailed _absolutely frickin’ insane_ assignments of anyone I’ve ever seen,” Clint said. “Although Natasha, before you call yourself ‘sensible’ again, you might consider Recife. There are four cabbies and a police horse who would disagree with you.”

“I don’t know what else you expected me to do after we lost the sloth, Clint.” Natasha told him, smiling a little bow smile that boded no one any good. “And whose fault was that?”

“This,” Phil interrupted, waving a hand at the two of them. “This is what I put up with on a daily basis.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way, sir,” Clint shot back, while Natasha elbowed him. Phil shook his head and snorted softly by way of answer. 

The statement hung suspended in the air, until Phil gradually became aware that his father and mother were both staring at him. 

“I didn’t, I wasn’t... somehow I never thought of your job as quite so... _adventurous_ , Phillip,” Deborah said, placing her words as if she were stepping around something unpleasant just discovered in tall grass.

“They’re exaggerating, Mom, honestly. It’s mostly paperwork and research and long flights. Plus bad hotel rooms and negotiating in a foreign language while jet-lagged,” Phil hastened to reassure her, grabbing one of her hands. “And when it isn’t, we keep each other safe.” Meeting her eyes was safer than meeting anyone else’s at that moment, but he heard his father shifting beside him.

“Well,” his mother replied, gathering herself up and inwards and giving him his hand back, “it sounds exhausting, for a man your age. When do they let you settle down and stop running all over the place?”

And just like that, everything was back to normal. Unfortunately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Back at the Window  
> Homework- No Boombox necessary-- interlude- interruption


	9. Back at the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Window  
> Homework-No Boombox necessary- interlude- interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is easily the shortest chapter in this story; I apologize for the brevity but it stands best on its own.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Back at the Window**

After dinner, the boys had been poured into their beds already three-quarters asleep. Their parents, after a long and somewhat heated discussion with Deborah, had announced that they were going out with friends as planned. 

“You have no idea how much I need a drink right now, Mom,” Reuben said, closing the door on his parting words. 

Clint and Natasha had walked with them as far as Main street, where Clint split off to his motel. Natasha made a vague excuse and let herself into a closed flower shop, where she could contact Research and Development and not be overheard.

Gary was long gone by the time they left, finishing set-up at the Same Old Place. Phil had retired to his room, ostensibly to catch up on some of that paperwork he’d told his mother made up the majority of his existence.

Eventually Natasha had come back, and she’d checked in with him long enough to give him the details of her conversation with the Mayor and tell him that R&D said they could do nothing without some concrete samples and why couldn’t someone have thought to save them a frankenfish? Then she’d gone upstairs to her room to see if the intelligence arm had been able to get her Todd Brown’s files yet.

His mother was doing chores in another part of the house; he could hear her creaking about the upper floors just like she always used to. The tapping of his fingers on the keys of his laptop was the loudest sound on the floor for that moment, at least until he forgot he was supposed to be typing and found himself staring at the window. He’d been doing that intermittently for the last fifteen minutes.

“Focus, soldier,” he growled to himself, and rubbed his eyes. “And put on your goddamn glasses, why can’t you? You’re not twenty.” A brief blind search of the end table revealed no glasses case, and he was forced to get up and go find them. They’d gone to ground in a corner of his briefcase. 

It might have been the weight of the glasses concentrating him, or it might have been the distraction of the brief search, but when he sat down again his perception had shifted. He was no longer seeing collections of property deeds or arrows sweeping over satellite stills, he was seeing patterns and plans. The outlines of the thing began to come clear as he rearranged the stills, clicking his own notes in next to Marty’s. 

It was so very obvious, looked at from above. The concentration of land, yes, yes, and the clustering of the new zoning permits around the same points. Green glowing rods and phytoplankton and gamma radiation-- Natasha would have to confirm it, but he thought he knew what they would find. In general, anyway, and for the first time he was confident the details would eventually emerge. What was still missing was containment. Somewhere near the experimental fields, near the land they’d been buying. There were enough decaying barns and grain silos for nearly anything in the area, but what was in good enough repair? 

It wasn’t the world’s most competent conspiracy, looked at dispassionately, but it had the potential to hurt in its own way.

_Nearly broke her heart... when he sold to Erwin White._

_Dead three months now, thrombosis. She was fixing to sue Erwin White._

_Got into a fight with a couple of Erwin’s boys._

_That woman’s going to bring this town to ruin, I tell you._

Stupid and petty and such very small stakes compared to what he was used to... except for those damn green glowing rods and Marty’s geiger counter, and a young man in the hospital in Chicago. And of course, anyone who happened to wander into the wrong part of the creek in an open boat.

Phil paused over the keypad, his eyes blurring over the map and heartbeat accelerating with each tumbler that clicked into place in his head. His fingers came back to the keys and flew faster, punctuated by silence every time he stopped to rub the back of his neck or get up and pace.

_Pock!_

It took him a moment to realize what the sound was, and another stock-still moment before he realized what-- who-- it meant. 

_Pock!_

Phil leapt to his knees and jettisoned his laptop in one motion as he scrambled to raise the sash.

“Hey,” Clint said as he popped up in the window, flushed from the walk and bare-armed, somehow having lost the jacket he’d been wearing earlier. “So dinner could have gone worse, but not without some major security breaches, right? Natasha and I were... you know how we get sometimes. I’m sorry we spooked your parents. I thought about bringing a boombox to hold up, if you want me to apologize more, but--” he didn’t get farther because Phil had fisted his collar in both hands and pulled him up and onto his lips.

It was not a perfunctory kiss, despite the fact that Phil was dangerously overbalanced and Clint was collapsed a little against the windowsill. It was all tongue and teeth and impatience. They broke apart only when they were gasping for air, and Phil had to let go entirely to keep himself from falling out of the window after Clint.

“Boombox not necessary,” Phil panted when he could breathe again. “Just get in here.”

“Fuck it,” Clint growled, then he planted his hands on the windowsill and surged back up into the embrace. His mouth met Phil’s at the same time as the rest of him cleared the sill. They tumbled back onto the daybed with their thighs tangled, Clint pressing down into the kiss like he was coming up for air. Phil dragged him closer with all his limbs at once.

“Much better,” he gasped eventually, as Clint’s mouth left his and started wandering towards the corner of his jaw.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm,” Clint responded, nuzzling in closer and beginning to work his hands under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt. Phil retaliated by grabbing the back of Clint’s tank top with both fists and yanking. “I think someone’s missed me,” he said, rocking backwards just long enough to allow Phil to strip him and toss the shirt on the floor.

“I can’t imagine what gave you that impression. Damnit, Clint, a button fly? Really?” 

“Let me get your shirt off, and I’ll help with the buttons-- _Phil._ Fuck. I didn’t mean this to go _quite_ this fast.” The last part was a little hard for Phil to hear, as his ears were muffled by the shirt that was being pulled over his head. Clint dove forward again to kiss him as soon as his face was free, one hand pulling at the small of his back and the other coming down to help handle the jeans buttons. Phil threaded his own free hand down the back of Clint’s pants where... he did not, in fact, find underwear.

“Shit.”

“Yep,” Clint grinned into the kiss. “Just how many of your fantasies _are_ we hitting right now, sir?” 

“Um.” They both felt the twitch from his groin at the title. “Including that one? Lots. Just... lots.” The button fly was free and the jeans rapidly disappeared, along with Phil’s knit pants. Phil felt Clint still in his arms a moment as he looked from the pile of discarded clothes to the door. Phil tugged him tighter. “It’s fine, Clint. Just be quiet and it’s fine. Mom never comes down here after nine.” The trail of light kisses down his sternum seemed to settle Clint, or at least re-focus him. He dipped his head low enough to bury his nose in Phil’s hair and nip at the top of his ear.

“Okay, but...” Clint laid his head back and his fingers clutched Phil’s shoulder. “I did need to actually _talk_ to you. Kind of urgently?”

“Is it more urgent than this?” Phil said, and slid off the bed onto his knees before burying his head between Clint’s thighs.

“Holy fuck-- _yes_! I, um-- no, I mean... keep doing that, Jesus, Phil, I missed you too.” 

“Mmmm?”

“Thought about you all the fucking time." Phil burrowed in deeper, spreading Clint's thighs wide and making him punctuate his words with little groans. "At night, _fuck,_ trying to jack off in the sleeping bag real quiet so no one would notice. _Goddamn,_ in the nest. _Yes, please, there_ \-- on the road. Got from Madison-- _ngh_ \-- to Rockford on a fantasy of fucking you over the bik-- _oh god Phil_.” Then fingers were in his hair and Clint was yanking him backwards. “Keep doing that and we’re both going to regret it. Give me... a moment, here.”

Phil smiled sloppily and nuzzled him, inhaling sharply before pulling away. 

“Never going to regret this.”

“Oh yeah? Not finished with me yet?” Clint’s face was too shadowed to read, but Phil pressed himself forward long enough to lick his bellybutton in reassurance, anyway.

“Three months, Clint. Three months and of that, we had missions for four weeks and you’ve been away without me the last two. I haven’t had time to get _started_ with you, damnit.” Clint’s hands trembled on his shoulders for a moment, before moving up to cup his face.

“Hey, here’s an idea. If we actually told people we were together, they might not schedule me for SHIELD Webelos camp up in Bumfuck U.P. without you.” Phil paused, looking up at Clint over the dark frames of his reading glasses.

“Let’s get right on that, then. You can be the one to tell Maria Hill, then ask her not to assign you ops away from your boyfriend because you’re horny. I’ll take care of the other handlers who whine that _now_ they know how I always got the _good_ specialists.” 

“Aw, fuck.” 

“I take it that’s a no?”

“I suppose.”

“Not forever. I promise.” Clint’s thigh was surprisingly giving under his teeth, and he nipped parallel lines down one and up the other.. “I just want to make sure _we’ve_ had a chance to get used to us before we ask SHIELD to get used to us.” 

“SHIELD’s been used to us together for years, boss. Not much has changed except-- _oh_ , well, okay, except _that._ Fine, you win, as long as you keep doing that thing with your ton _gue oooooooh yes do that again-- mrph!_ ” Phil removed one hand from its occupation and covered Clint’s mouth firmly. He was rewarded with a nip on the pads of his long fingers.

That was when they heard the creak from the top of the stairs. A switch flicked in the distance and light filtered through the crack beneath the door to the study. They both froze, Clint’s hands on Phil’s shoulders. After a long silence, Phil gave an experimental lick before preparing to get back to the task at hand. Clint jumped, then jumped again as Deborah’s voice called, much closer than expected.

“Phil, dear, laundry time! Bring me all those horrible fishy clothes, please.” She’d somehow come down the stairs silently, and her voice sounded from the hallway. Clint looked down and met his lover’s wide eyes behind their thick-framed glasses.

“Phil!” the knock came at the same time as Deborah opened the door. “Didn’t you hear me? What are you doing in here? What-- oh, my God, _Phil._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d say I’m sorry but I’m really not.
> 
> Next time:
> 
> Change of Plans  
> revelations of the intimate kind- a mother scorned- doing the laundry
> 
> Hand Towels  
> awkward placement- Clint really did need to talk urgently- texts and exits


	10. Change of Plans/ Hand Towels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change of Plans  
> revelations of the intimate kind- a mother scorned- doing the laundry
> 
> Hand Towels  
> awkward placement- Clint really did need to talk urgently- texts and exits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, thank you for all the comments on the last chapter. I’m a little overwhelmed. Also suddenly slightly nervous about this one. See you at the end notes.
> 
> Also, dear beta? I'm so damn glad you're back; this chapter is much better because of you. And now you've got reading to catch up on.
> 
>    
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Change of Plans**

“Oh my God, _Phil_.”

“What?” 

Deborah didn’t so much set down her laundry basket as let it drop from nerveless hands. Shirts, slips, socks, left hanging in the air by the drop, slumped to the carpet in a ring. 

“What do you mean ‘what’? _That_.” She pointed. Phil looked down at his lap, which was covered both with his quilt and with his laptop and therefore could not _actually_ be revealing anything untoward. He raised his gaze up his own bare stomach, until it hit the-- oh. His hands fluttered to the set of raised scars spidering up his flank (and hip, thankfully covered). “Yes, those. What-- where did you get those?” He very nearly couldn’t hear her, she was so soft and the pounding in his ears was so loud.

“These? Budapest. Appendicitis. The surgeons were real butchers.” He flattened his palm down against them before she could get a closer look.

“How long--?”

“Years ago, now.”

“You never told us.”

“I didn’t want to worry you, Mom.” She hissed out a breath and turned red, and he held up his hands to ward her off. “You couldn’t have done anything from here. It was over and done with by the time you could have even gotten there.”

“You're telling me you had major surgery-- _horribly botched_ major surgery-- in a foreign country and you didn’t think it was important enough to mention? Were you ever going to tell us?”

“It just... didn’t come up.” Phil tried to tug his quilt further up his body, around the matching set of scars on his other hip, the fine pink lines half hidden among his chest hair and freckles, the star a bullet had left in his right shoulder, all the traces of the wounds that had accumulated practically unnoticed in the decade plus since he’d last let his family see him shirtless-- or pantless or barefoot, for that matter.

“Phillip Joseph Coulson, that should _never_ just ‘not come up.’” Her voice was wet through her outrage. “I would have come, I could have taken care of you-- you were all alone.” One hand had come up to cover her mouth, and she was crying openly now. Phil reached for her, aborting the movement at the last moment as the laptop began to shift. So he sat, bare shoulders slumped, tangled in his blankets, and opened both hands palms up.

“I wasn’t alone, Mom,” he tried. “Clint was there. He took care of me. He saved my life, really.”

“Oh, _Clint_ ,” his mother snapped. “He’s no substitute for family. Natasha too, I suppose?”

“She was there, yes. She didn’t know me well yet, but she helped Clint out.”

“But neither of them thought that you might have family that needed to be notified? Are they just that thoughtless, or do you never talk about us?”

“Mom--”

“No, Phillip. _No_.” Deborah stalked over and sat down next to him, pulling his chin around so that he was forced to look her in the eye. He blinked from behind his glasses and waited. “I know you think I’m a nag about family time, but I can’t help it. I never want to see you as lost again as you were when you came back from... when you were discharged. It nearly destroyed your father and me, it nearly destroyed you-- if it hadn’t been for your friend Nick, I don’t know what would have happened. So you were lucky with _those_.” she nodded down at the pink puckers, “What if something happens to you again and no one is there?” 

Phil lifted a hand to her cheek.

“Somalia was a long time ago, Mom. I can’t live my entire life hiding because of it, and neither can you.”

She sat looking at him for a long moment, then put her head down and sighed. When she raised it again, any hope he might have had that he’d defused the situation died. Her face was stone.

“There’s a difference between hiding and setting out to get yourself killed. Whatever it is you’re doing for the IMF, it’s certainly not accounting, is it? No, don’t open your mouth, you’re just going to lie to me like you’ve been doing this entire conversation. I can tell. After all, look at you. Did you have your spleen burst as well, or were the surgeons so bad they had to dig into both sides of your body? Did you think I didn’t see _all_ of that? Did you think I didn’t see _this_?” She prodded the star on his shoulder. “I’m your mother, Phil. Hide from danger or don’t hide from danger-- I can’t stop you-- but _hiding_ it from me is....”

“Mom. I didn’t... you can’t....” He ended on a long, dissatisfied sigh, and shrugged. “I don’t want to hurt any of you.”

“Funny way you have of showing it. _Mostly paperwork_ , Phil? What did I do to deserve that kind of lie?”

“That... isn’t actually a lie, sadly. There is an awful lot of paperwork involved.”

“And when there isn’t?” He took her hands, held them tight in his own when she tried to draw back.

“Then we keep each other safe.”

“Forgive me for not believing that right now. I’m still working on the concept that you’ve been out putting yourself into danger for the last I don’t know how long, that at any moment I could have _lost you_ , you could have _died_ , and I never knew it. That however bad I imagined your job was, it’s worse. And that you’re evidently still set on lying to me about it-- no. I don’t want to hear any justifications for that. There is nothing you could tell me that would help right now. Is it so wrong of me to want you settled, Phil? I realize I've been an annoyance, nagging you so much about it. I must seem very pathetic to you; I suppose I can't complain when you pull away. But I can't help it. I can't help wanting you someplace safe, not out attempting to break your entire family’s heart and leave your nephews without an uncle. Why can’t you find something else to do?”

“Because I’m good at this, Mom.” 

“Surely other people would be equally good at whatever this is. It doesn’t _have_ to be you.”

“No, it probably doesn’t,” he said, drawing the words out slowly. “There might even be people out there better than I am. But this is what I want to do. My work makes a difference, Mom. Not a difference to your tax returns, it actually changes the world. Ideally, we make people’s lives better. If nothing else, we make countries more secure, we give them a better chance at peace. I know you don’t want me to get hurt, but this is worth it to me. I know Dad doesn’t agree with our methods and hell, sometimes I don’t either. But I don’t think he’d disagree with our goals if-- anyway, people count on me and I can’t let them down.” She just watched him for a while, her eyes clear beneath the coating of tears.

“I can’t tell if you’re still talking about the job you want me to think you do, or whatever it is you actually do. If it means more to you than the health of your Mother’s heart, I can’t stop you. But surely there are desk jobs? Something you could transfer to so you could stay in New York _and_ have a family instead of running around trying to get yourself killed? Somewhere I can visit and remind you to take care of yourself and pick up your socks once in a while?”

“Mom!” he laughed, a slightly hysterical sound, as they circled back to firmer ground.

“I mean it. You need me. Look what happens when you’re left without your mother for too long.” She swept a hand to indicate the pile of clothes on the floor. “I taught you better than to leave your clothes in a pile.” Before he could react she was back up, bundling shirts and socks and tanks into the basket with shaking hands.

“Mom, you really don’t have to--”

“Let. Me. Do. This. For. You. Phillip.” She snarled, waving the cell phone she’d pulled from the pocket of a pair of discarded jeans. She tossed it to him and shook out the rest of the pockets onto the bed, scattering keys, coins, and a folding knife. “It is not too much to ask to let me pretend things are normal for five minutes.” He held up his hands in surrender.

“All right.”

“Fine!” she huffed, and turned on her heel, basket under one arm. She was not moving in the direction of the study door.

“Stop!” he commanded as her hand came down on the bathroom doorknob, and she did, shocked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting your towels.”

“There’s nothing in there.”

“Of course there are--”

“Upstairs. I took them all upstairs when I showered this afternoon. Just leave it.”

“I will, then. You didn’t have to snap.” He nodded in acknowledgement of the renewed wateriness of her voice.

“I know. I’m sorry. Mom? I do love you.” She ducked her head in an echo of his own gesture.

“You have a funny way of showing it, dear.” She was at the door now and turned, her hand on the knob. “If you marry Natasha, maybe she can remind you how to treat family. And maybe she’ll be able to convince you to take more care of yourself, if you have her to come home to. You have to have thought about that, yes?”

“I think about it,” he admitted. “I, ah, thought you didn’t like Natasha?”

“She’s not good enough for you. But I’m your mother; I’ll think that about anyone. I get such mixed signals from her. She was very good with Elliot tonight, but I wonder.... It doesn’t matter, that was before all this.” Her hand gesture encompassed his entire torso and its catalog of past pain. “I assume she has some part or another in what you do, Phil?” He nodded.

“Maybe that explains it, then. I’m beginning to agree with her that she’s the most sensible of the lot of you. But I’m desperate; I’d take anyone who would get you to settle down right now. Natasha’s not family, but I’ll take her as long as she takes care of you.”

“She does. They both do, Mom. She and Clint.” She snorted.

“You say it like they come as a set.”

“They do, a bit.”

“Well. It’s your life. God knows you’ve made that abundantly clear. Under the circumstances I feel absurd saying it, but be careful with Clint. I don’t trust him.”

“I do.”

“I know you do, Phil. I’m sure you have your reasons. All I know is that he keeps bad company.”

“The circus? That’s unfair, that was a long time ago.”

“I know it was. I meant your father. No good can come of the amount of time they’re spending together.”

“There I agree completely. Good night, Mom.”

“Good night, Phillip.” She closed the door behind her. After a long moment, her footsteps retreated up the stairs.

Clint poked his head out of the tiny half-bath, followed by his bare shoulders and the rest of his naked form. Phil was caught for a moment, staring, as he emerged, before finally flicking his eyes back up to the sheepish grin on his lover’s face. They laughed together, a little shaky, after a moment. Each of them ignored the way the other’s smile never made it to his eyes.

“‘She never comes down after nine,’ huh?”

“Oh, god, I have never seen you move so fast in my life,” Phil said, half a laugh and half a groan. “In a civilian situation, anyway.”

“Ditto to you. Thank fuck for evasive maneuvers training. Babe--”

“I’m sorry. For my mother. I apologize.”

“Come on, she’s just, y’know, doing what mothers do. She’ll be all right eventually. She loves you.”

“No, I apologize that she took your pants.”

**Hand Towels**

The adrenaline rush that had propelled Clint up and off the bed at the moment he’d heard Deborah calling for laundry in the hall had launched him right over Phil. He somersaulted into the half-bath, closing the door as he rolled to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Phil throwing his boxer-clad behind beneath his quilt and dumping the laptop on top. His mother was entering the study when Clint tried to lock the bathroom door, only to discover it had no lock. 

He was stark naked in a tiny room with nowhere to hide. 

Clint looked around wildly, but found only a hand towel to aid him. He braced the door closed with one hand by pulling hard on the knob, and held the hand towel awkwardly in place with the other. 

“Typical, Barton, just typical,” he muttered under his breath. “I _knew_ this would happen. Fuck.”

Outside, he could hear Deborah’s gasp, Phil’s confusion bleeding into dismay as the conversation devolved. The words “Budapest,” “appendicitis,” and “butchers” filtered through, and Clint winced. He’d seen the scars when they were still open wounds, held them closed with the fingers that were now tensed on the doorknob.

As he listened to Deborah’s broken voice, to Phil’s increasingly ragged attempts to calm her, Clint’s grip slowly loosened. He dropped the knob altogether in favor of putting his hand to his mouth when Deborah, bitter as vinegar, first called her son a liar. By the time the conversation in the study wound down, he was sitting on the toilet seat rubbing his lips nervously, any real use for the hand towel long gone. Phil’s command voice and the rattle at the door brought him to his feet. He lunged for the knob, only to freeze again when Deborah mentioned marrying and settling down. Phil sounded distant and withdrawn as he answered.

 _I think about it._ Clint blinked, swallowed, let out a few deliberate breaths. Stood frozen on the bathroom tile until they said good night.

The sound of a closing door and a long silence brought him creeping out, trying to regain his dignity. He was nearly there when Phil apologized for his mother.

“Shit. I give up, boss. She wins.” He ran his hands through his hair, tufting whatever bits of it had escaped Phil’s earlier ministrations. “You have jeans, right? Where?” Clint didn’t wait for an answer before finding and digging into Phil’s suitcase, emerging with a pair. He turned to find Phil’s eyes on him as he shimmied them on.

“I’m really sorry to run, babe, but your mom took long enough that I won’t make the second set if I don’t hurry.”

“Do you need to make it?” Phil was standing now, sliding around behind him, breath warm against his ear. He clung a little, tucking his chin into Clint’s shoulder, close enough that Clint could feel the brush of eyelashes when Phil closed his eyes. He reached up to cradle Phil's cheek in his palm.

“I wish I could stay, I do. You look like you just had the crap beaten out of you.”

“In retrospect, having her find you here with me might have been easier to handle.” Clint turned his head enough to press a kiss to Phil’s temple. 

“I can’t skip this, Phil, I wish I could. Your Dad is expecting me.”

“You and Dad get along really well.” Phil released him reluctantly.

“No we don’t.”

“You do. He doesn’t usually glom onto my friends like this.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“You don’t like him?” Clint turned, halfway in and halfway out of one of Phil’s undershirts, to find its owner gazing at him with a conflicted expression tugging at the corners of his eyes.

“I do, probably because I’m an idiot. He’s devious, like you. I like him enough to want to keep him from blowing himself up.”

“He’s _not_ like-- what?” In other circumstances, in any other circumstances, Clint would have stopped to take a picture of the perfect blank Phil’s face achieved in that moment.

“I did _tell_ you I had to talk to you urgently. Your Dad and the Boys are planning something for tomorrow during the reunion. And it involves dynamite.” He retrieved his combat boots from under the bed and began to lace them up as he filled Phil in. By the time the boots were on and the story was done, Phil was standing stock still in the middle of the floor, clad in only his boxers. Every one of his few remaining defenses had crumbled away and his face freely radiated his bafflement. Clint couldn’t stop staring; it was entirely new in his experience.

“Well, fuck,” Phil said eventually, pulling himself together with an effort. “I’m just going to sit here contemplating the upending of my entire life. I suppose you’d better go keep your date with my Dad.” 

“Gig, boss, it’s a gig.” Phil’s jeans were tight enough that Clint had to stretch to get the fly zipped. He wiggled them down his hips a little.

“With a little more time with the documents, I should be able to figure out what they’re targeting.” Phil’s cell phone buzzed on the side table as he spoke. He picked it up. “Or maybe not. Apparently I’m going to pick up Marty and go to the Same Old Place.” With a sigh, he wandered over to the debris field Clint had created around his suitcase and began to search for an outfit.

“Hmm,” Clint said, checking his own phone. “You’ll see Nat there. She texted me five minutes ago to warn me she’d be coming down. Says she needs to talk to Leo Brown and figures I’m not doing it quickly enough.”

“Okay. I’ll see you both there. Oh, shit.”

“What this time?”

“You realize what this means?” Phil asked, caught staring at Clint’s rear. “I’m going to have to spend the evening watching you onstage in _my_ jeans and _no underwear_ \-- playing bass.”

“What a hardship,” Clint leered.

“ _Standing next to my Dad._ ”

Clint gave a helpless little sigh of a laugh and pulled Phil in for a quick, sloppy kiss, then clambered back out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, evil, I know. I’m a horrible sucker for the old bait-and-switch cliffhanger move. Even distracted, Clint and Phil still have decades of espionage training between them, so getting them caught didn't fit right. This time, anyway. 
> 
> But don’t worry! Deborah’s Clint-related fireworks are but postponed.
> 
> Next Time:  
> The Same Old Place  
> introductions all around- Leo Brown- Marty La Blanc- Clint and Gary- Pamela Brown


	11. The Same Old Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Same Old Place  
> introductions all around- Leo Brown- Marty La Blanc- Clint and Gary- Pamela Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For mostly saving me from regrets that I put a goddamn music scene in this story, my dear beta deserves extra thanks. Any remaining faults are my own post-beta reading second thoughts. That, and a last minute uncertainty as to whether my original beer choice was available in Illinois.
> 
> Yes. That's what I chose to worry about.
> 
> I also feel like I should post a disclaimer that all characters' beer choices are their own and do not reflect author preferences.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**The Same Old Place**

The band was in full swing when Phil wheeled Marty into the Same Old Place that night. About half of his old classmates appeared to be present (not difficult, given that his graduating class numbered twenty-three). He and Marty wasted a few minutes exchanging names and faces in an undertone, before he caught Natasha lounging by the bar as she glanced up to meet his eyes.

The Close Enough to Fernton Boys were onstage in the middle of a set. Gary was seated, playing the banjo and nodding in time as the band ambled through _Illegal Smile_. Clint was thumping along happily enough on Mandy, who was slung across his shoulders nearly as straight as an upright. He was stage right, close enough to Gary to be able to trade remarks in an undertone and be understood. His movements onstage were sparse, Mandy-focused, as if his entire body was magnetized to her.

“Hey,” Marty said after a pause, and Phil finally withdrew his eyes from the stage. “Introduce me?” He nodded back over Phil’s shoulder, and Phil turned to find Natasha smirking at him.

“Sure thing. Natasha, Marty; Marty, Natasha.”

“It’s good to meet you, Marty. I’ve heard your name many times.”

“Glad to meet you, Natasha. I wish I could say the same of you.” Both of them were leaning forward across him to talk, and Phil pushed his chair back.

“Still a Miller guy, Marty?”

“Only the High Life for me, Phil. You know that.”

“Jesus.”

“Hey, good luck finding any of your snobby beers here. Natasha, can your man get you anything?” 

“Oh,” Natasha glanced up at Phil with a smile in the corner of her eyes. “I’ll have what you’re having, unless there’s a decent vodka hidden somewhere in this place.”

As Phil headed to the bar, his back to the stage, Clint’s light laugh echoed behind him. He set up a bass riff, just on the edge of hearing. Tilt’s guitar and Gary’s voice drifted up, muffled under the noise of the bar.

“Hey Leo,” Phil greeted the owner of the Same Old Place, who looked up at him and attempted a smile. It kind of disappeared into his moustache and had turned into a frown by the time it emerged onto his jowls.

“Phil. Good to see you.”

“Mom and Pamela told me about Todd; I’m so sorry to hear it. You’d let me know if there’s anything I can do?” It seemed like the taps in front of Leo must be extraordinarily dirty, the way he was cleaning them. He nodded, head ducked.

“Matter of fact,” Leo said after a minute, “Your girl Natasha said you’d say that. I guess she didn’t tell you; Todd’s had a relapse. He’s in a coma now.”

“Shit-- oh, Leo. I’m so sorry. Do the doctors have any clue?”

“Couldn’t find one without taking their heads out of their asses, and they still haven’t done that. Phil?”

“I am guilty, oh I'm guilty, of something I hope you never do,” his father sang. The bass was so subtle underneath the melody that it was nearly a haze.

Phil re-settled himself so his back was more firmly to the stage.

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t been home much, huh?”

“No. Seems like I missed a lot.”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Leo looked up at him, his face expressionless. “I feel like I should have been in touch with you and Marty, anyway. I’m so out of the loop these days.”

“Oh, we were doing fine ‘till recently. Some things you just don’t see coming.”

“I guess not.”

“Somebody said they saw me, swingin’ the world by the tail.” Clint’s voice harmonized above his father’s on the refrain, a light tenor with more than a hint of smile bleeding through. Phil looked back once, to watch his father watching Clint, who was glancing down past his fingers on Mandy with a secretive smirk. “Bouncing over a white cloud, killing the blues.”

Leo shifted behind him, and he turned back. The man seemed to have come to some decision.

“Phil... I talk to Marty a lot, you know. He likes to talk about the past, about what you two did in the Gulf and after.”

“Does he?”

“He seems to think you’ve still got, well, connections. Federal connections, or some shit.”

“He’s mentioned that to me, yeah.” Leo’s pint glasses were going to be so clean he was going to wear them through in places if he kept going much longer. “Marty’s perceptive, I’ll give you that.” 

“And your girl, you two work together, huh? She had a lot of good things to say about you. She said she thought maybe you both could help.”

“Natasha doesn’t make promises she can’t keep,” Phil said judiciously, meeting Leo’s eyes as best he could across the bar. “I can vouch for that.”

“Think I could talk to her a little more? She said... she asked... she doesn’t think it’s too late to... Phil, do you _trust_ her, though?”

“With my life.” Phil said, watching Leo closely. “Shall I get her?”

“Please?”

A few minutes later, he approached the table where Pamela Brown had joined Marty and Natasha, and set down a High Life and two Leinenkugels. He signalled Natasha while he greeted Pamela, and she pushed her beer over to the other woman and made her excuses.

‘Whatever you said to Leo,” he told her, “he wants to hear more. What’s going on?” Natasha shook her head and leaned into Phil, touching her forehead to his and running a finger down his cheek.

“I kept it vague, but I did say I thought I could help. I used your name a lot, once I realized how much he and Martin talk. I’m not getting anything from R&D, they keep insisting they need samples and no one in Chicago has thought to get themselves into the hospital.”

“But you think Leo might let you take samples? Even though the Mayor’s had his license approved.”

“His son’s in a coma now. That’s a little more important than a liquor license exemption. I think I’m ten minutes away from getting him to let me into the hospital with him.”

“Don’t let me keep you, then.” Natasha nodded into his cheek, and sashayed by him, heading for the bar. The heads of half of the neighboring table-- mostly people Phil remembered from the high school football and softball teams-- followed her. He shook his head and caught Marty’s eye as he slipped between the two of them. 

Deloris was singing now, a high haunting version of _My Son John_ , and Phil looked up. Mikey was swaying like a birch, his fiddle keening, while Gary and Tilt hunched over banjo and guitar respectively, shaking their heads in near unison. Clint was stock still except for the movement of his fingers on Mandy's strings. His eyes were closed, head flung back and sweat shining on the planes of his neck under the golden lights.

“Hm,” Marty said, and spoke along with the chorus, a rumbling undertone. “Oh, I was tall and I was slim, and I had a leg for every limb.” Phil winced.

“I don’t think they were thinking about--” Marty raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, neither do I, Phil. Whatever your Dad was thinking was directed at you, or maybe Clint. That is Clint on bass, I take it? Nah, your Dad’s got his own hang-ups, but he’d never do that intentionally.”

“You guys get along these days?”

“Oh, sure. I know where he’s coming from, he knows where I’ve been, thanks to you.” From Phil’s other side, he felt a soft hand on his forearm and turned. Pamela was smiling at him, a sad little quirk to the side of her lips. She patted his arm, gently, then said:

“I enjoyed chatting with Natasha, Phil. She had some wonderful stories; I especially liked the one about you being stranded on Crete for three days, and trying to find her chocolate cake.” It was one of the best of their shared safe stories, and Pamela brought it out as if she were encouraging one of her more reticent students.

“Natasha may have finally forgiven us for that one,” he smiled back. “Well, me maybe. She may never forgive Clint.”

“You’ve travelled a lot, it sounds like. Has it been fun?” He glanced up at her sharply; there was nothing in her eyes but genial interest. He watched for a little, but didn’t turn up anything hidden, either wistfulness or disdain. Eventually he stopped looking and shrugged.

“We have. I don’t think I’d call it ‘fun’ so much as ‘interesting.’”

“But that’s good!”

“Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s very, very bad. Look at Leo, now.” He jerked his head over his shoulder, and Pamela’s eyes followed his. “I don’t think this kind of ‘interesting’ is what he had in mind for Todd.” 

“I suppose I would have categorized that as ‘terrifying’ instead of ‘interesting,’ Phil,” she said, looking down at her beer bottle. “But I see your point. I don’t like that kind of interesting, myself. We’ve got too much of that kind of interesting around here, lately.” She sighed. “But that isn’t interesting to someone like you; tell me more about your travels, please.”

“Pam, no,” Phil gestured at her with the neck of his bottle. “Do not start that inferiority thing with me. I hate it when Mom does it, and you have no reason to do it, either. I’m here for my high school reunion, what do you think I want to hear about? I want to hear how you and your kids and your husband are doing, I want to hear who hasn’t been coming around the Blue Note much lately. I want to hear all about Dean getting hit in the head with fish. That’s what I’m here for.” He glanced back at Leo, again. Natasha was still sitting at the bar. Leo wasn’t precisely in front of her, wasn’t precisely looking at her, but as they talked past each other, his eyes kept straying. Once again, Pamela followed his eyes. “I’m starting to think I’ve missed too much. I should have come back earlier.”

“Oh, there was nothing you could do,” Pamela said, shaking her head. “But I’m glad we don’t bore you. I was sure I had, this morning at the diner, prattling on about soccer and braces and things.”

“You? Never. Tell me more about braces, and soccer, and sliver carp.” Pamela rolled her eyes at that last.

“If I never hear about that damn fish again it’ll be too soon.” But she willingly expounded on Trina’s braces, and then on the new soccer field they were raising money to build, since the old one had been brought up for some kind of sewage improvements. None of it was particularly helpful in sorting out the last vestiges of the conspiracy, but Phil’s shoulders relaxed as the familiar sweet drone of her voice went on. It was still a habitual reaction, left over from the long-past days when he’d loped home at her side, listening to babble about homework and the chemistry teacher who hated her, yes, Phil, _hated_ , and the thousand and one things he’d only half heard while he watched her hair bob around her face. Marty drifted off to a table that held several locals, and his pleased chuckle floated back to Phil.

Eventually he drifted, eyes going back to the stage, where Gary had just suggested _Angel from Montgomery_ , and Deloris was starting up. Clint, he realized with a shock, was watching him, eyes sharp and accurate even as they fought the stage lights. Phil thought he saw Clint’s glance flick over to Pamela, before coming to rest back on him. He grazed one hand down his hip, rubbing off sweat, before curling it around Mandy’s neck. Clint joined on the chorus when it came, soft and high, startling Gary, who nearly missed coming in with rhythm guitar in time.

“Make me an angel, that flies from Montgomery, make me a poster of an old rodeo, just give me one thing that I can hold on to, to believe in this living is just a hard way to go.” 

Pamela was still chattering at his side, some great distance away, while Deloris and Clint exchanged verses. Clint might as well have been staring through a scope at the two of them, the way his gaze was locked. Suddenly, he shook his head and completed the verse Deloris had been singing, as if she were too tired to continue and the words were dragged out of him:

“But that was a long time, and no matter how I try, the years just flow by like a broken down dam.” 

“You know,” Pamela’s voice cut through the silence at the end of the song, contemplative, “that’s why I turned you down, Phil.”

“What?” Flustered, Phil realized he’d transferred his stare to her. “What’s why you turned me down?”

“That,” Pamela said, and pointed to the stage. There was a muffled discussion going on, some kind of negotiation that involved rapid pointing among the various singers, Clint’s stare, Gary’s scowl, Tilt’s shrug, Mikey’s nod, and then several instruments were changed out. 

“That what, that song?”

“That man.”

“My _father_? What’s wrong with him?” There was a very long and detailed answer to that, but it was Phil’s and only Phil’s to give, after all. “He didn’t mind you.”

“No, that _other_ man, the one you’ve been locked in a staring contest with. Jeez, Phil. I just hoped you’d outgrown that tendency. This is the new millenium; you don’t need to hide it anymore, right? Even here, we’re not that provincial.”

“I... Pam? Are you saying you turned me down because you thought I was gay?”

“And are you telling me you really didn’t look at Marty the exact same way you looked at Clint just now? Like you want to, to, _eat_ him? Because I don’t remember you ever looking at me that way.”

“Oh, Pamela, I really did look at you that way. I was just very bad at expressing it.” His voice had all the sincerity that his eighteen year-old self would ever had mustered, if the same question had been put to him. 

Pamela met his gaze and returned it with one of the more devastating that’s-enough-young-man stares any grade-schooler was likely to encounter. Phil, on the other hand, was no longer eight, and had been raised by a teacher himself. 

Onstage, Gary was singing _Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright_ like he wasn’t quite sure how it was coming out of his mouth, and he stumbled a bit more when Clint and Deloris joined on the chorus, their voices undercutting each other at the edges.

One of them had to blink first, inevitably. It was Phil, but it was a controlled blink.

“I’ll admit,” he said, a wry twist to his lips, “to part of the charge. I’ve looked at lots of men that way, too. Marty was never one of them, Pam, or maybe he would have been if I had realized I was bi before it was much too late. I don’t _hide_ it, and I wouldn’t use Natasha to hide it.” He was very careful not to look at the bar-- or the stage-- as he said that. “But I think you might have changed the course of history if you’d just told me that, instead of telling me you didn’t love me. Or didn’t you?”

“I really didn’t, Phil, not enough to spend my life with you. I just didn’t think you did either.” Her smile had taken on a rueful quality. “I’m not sure changing history would have been good. You’d have been really bored as a teacher.” He snorted. 

“Half the time I feel like I’m wrangling grade-schoolers now. I just do it in exotic locales, with a lot of trouble and expense. Who said I wanted to stay a teacher, anyway? I think I’d have made a great principal.” It was the same joke he’d used to her when they used to sit together in her room after school, and plot their future side-by-side. She laughed now as she had then.

Onstage, Clint and Gary had finished whatever discussion they’d been having, and Gary swung into a flat-picking style on the banjo, with Tilt hunched over his guitar and bouncing, while Clint smirked and shook his head. He brought in a twangy bass line, swaying Mandy and his hips in time, and he and Gary launched into _You Never Even Call Me By My Name_ in tandem, eyes locked on each other in some kind of silent dare.

“Oh, I’ll hang around as long as you will let me; I’ve never minded standing in the rain,” Clint belted out, and he was grinning, oh was he grinning, head thrown back. Phil realized he was echoing the grin only when Pamela slapped him on the arm. “You don’t have to call me “darlin’”, darlin’, but you never even call me by my name.”

“I haven’t heard it for a while, that’s all,” Phil said, defensive yet smiling through it. “Dad used to sing it all the time around the house.”

“And Clint?” Because yes, that’s where he was looking.

“Sings it sometimes when we travel. Don't ever tell either of them, but it always reminded me of home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time:
> 
> Green Glowy Things  
> on legless soldiers- a late night visit- Joey White- green glowy thing
> 
> Up the Tree  
> alternate entrances and exits- an unsettled family- special delivery


	12. Green Glowy Things/ Up the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Green Glowy Things  
> on legless soldiers- a late night visit- Joey White- green glowy things
> 
> Up the Tree  
> alternate entrances and exits- an unsettled family- special delivery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extra long chapter, but it closes out day two so I’m not going to break it up. Day two was a damn long day already.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Green Glowy Things**

At the end of the set, Clint had grabbed Gary's hand and given it a hearty shake, complete with man-hug. Gary pulled back and looked at him a little oddly, before turning to pack up his banjo. This was probably fair, given that they'd just spent the better part of an hour intermittently bickering over song choice.

"Enjoy yourself?" he asked, his voice muffled by the case he was bent over.

"Thoroughly." Clint told him. "Best time I've had since the arch-duke who probably wasn't one." That one had turned into a three-day long bender around Prague's seediest bars, at the end of which the arch-duke came home to realize his entire counterfeiting empire had been carted off to points unknown during his absence.

"You're a glutton for punishment." 

"Maybe." Gary gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Did you know when you requested it?"

"What?"

"That Marty over there has no legs. Did you know?" Clint glanced down at the table in front of him, where Marty had re-joined Phil and Pamela. Marty and Pamela were laughing up at a hovering Erwin White, a man with hands like hams and a face like a surly draft horse.

"Doesn't he? Well, shit." Clint looked at him more closely. Marty didn't seem especially traumatized; in fact, he winked when Clint accidentally caught his eye. "I'll apologize later, I guess."

"You know, back there" Gary said, looking up at Clint from around his own backside, "when we were in the song, I actually thought you understood it. Surprised the hell out of me. But that? Was pretty callous."

"Look, I'm not any more fond of war, in concept or in fact, than you are. But I'm not about to get all bashful just because I happen to meet yet one more legless soldier. Yes, I think I understand that song. I've met too many broken people, in one way or another, in my line of work." Clint sat down on the side of the stage. After a moment, Gary came over to crouch by him.

"That worries me, given that your line of work is to protect my son.”

"I'm doing my best to keep all his legs about him, when he lets me."

"It’s not the physical danger, not primarily." Gary huffed out. "It's what happens to his heart. He's too damn smart-- and you are too, frankly-- to put yourselves on the line for an institution that can barely keep track of the people it buries as it glad-hands its way over the globe bribing governments. It doesn't much matter to me whether the collateral damage is people’s lives or their livelihoods."

"Okay, even if that's entirely accurate, and I hope it's not, would you rather have the people on the inside not care either? Because if people like Phil and I don't do this, that's who will. And let me tell you, the organizations where top to bottom everyone's only in it for themselves? _Those_ scare me. Your son," he jerked his head to where Phil was just returning to his table with a drink for Erwin, who'd joined them, "he keeps that from happening where we work. By main force if he has to. 'Course, he doesn't think of it that way. He just thinks he's got to be Captain fucking America, and he's not always great at understanding his limits." He gave Gary a long look.

“That’s the justification people have made since the beginning for staying safe and cozy on the inside,” Gary said. “It’s a gilded cage, and you don't even see the bars anymore. At least here on the outside, you can try to blow things up.”

"Huh. On the inside, Phil tries to minimize collateral damage, to us and everyone around us. Can you say the same? When you decide to ‘blow things up,’ do you think about that first? About who gets hurt and what gets swept away?" Gary looked at him sharply, away, back again, and then became intensely interested in rearranging the extra strings at the bottom of his case.

"Well, shit, I never thought of a banjo as weapon of mass destruction, son. But all you had to do was ask; I’ll put it away." He snapped the case shut and rose. "Good jam tonight."

"Yeah."

Clint hopped off the stage with Mandy in her case on his back. Seeing Phil’s look, he stopped at the table to say hello briefly, shook hands with Marty, patted Phil on the shoulder, and sauntered off. If his hips held a bit more sway than strictly necessary, surely that could be put down to post-bass adrenaline. Natasha was still sitting at the bar and denied his _ready to go?_ signal with a cut of her hand at hip level. 

Out on the street, the stars were high and bright and had depth in the way they never did back in New York. You could swim through them, if you could only figure out how to take the first step. He lingered outside his door at the motel, inhaling the scent of soil and algae that came floating in on the breeze. When he finally turned to the door, he froze.

It was unlocked, and the knob still had a paperclip sticking from it.  
___

As the door slammed back on its hinges, bouncing off the far wall, he followed his handgun into the room, rolled into a crouch in the protected corner by the bathroom, cleared it, and flicked on the light. All of this happened within the space of a long breath, and on the exhale he saw the bed.

The bed with Elliot sitting on it, a jacket on over sleep clothes, looking dirty and apprehensive.

“Shit, kid,” he said after a moment. Elliot’s eyes never left the barrel of the gun. Clint glanced down at it, shrugged, and finished his sweep before carefully removing the magazine and clearing the chamber. He set magazine and gun on the desk with precise clicks, letting Elliot watch him as he did. Then he sat down on the floor in front of the boy, nearly against the wall.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Elliot said after a moment. “I’m not scared.” His voice very nearly didn’t waver.

“Not of my gun, no,” Clint said judiciously, and leaned back to wait. “I did that because your Uncle would have killed me if I hadn’t, with you around.”

“Uncle Phil knows you carry a gun?”

“I’d be very bad security if I didn’t, Elliot.”

“Are you his security here?”

“Does he need security here?” Elliot shifted. Looked over at the bedside lamp, down to Clint’s duffel left open on the floor, and focused on his knees for a moment. 

“You said to come here if I needed help.” He was looking like his uncle again as he frowned, defiance warring with something else in his face.

“I meant it. What am I going to help with?”

“It’s... probably easier to show you.” Elliot said, in a mumble.

“Sure. Let me bring Mandy in, and let’s go.” He watched Elliot look over at the gun. It was the small one he kept in a back pocket in Mandy’s case, just for situations like this. Like this could have been, anyway. When he came back into the room with Mandy, Elliot was still looking at it, but when Clint went to put it away in its pocket, he looked up.

“Could you bring that? Just... just in case?”

“Sure thing.” He dug his hip holster out and put it on, covering it and the gun with his zip-up hoodie. Elliot sighed in visible relief, and Clint briefly reached for the little case that held his throwing knife set, before dropping his hand. He still had the knives that lived in his combat boots, after all, and at some point, all that arming was going to go from soothing to terrifying for the kid. Hell, should already have gone to terrifying.

He maneuvered Elliot out the door, instead, and presented him with the paperclip before locking it.

“Lockpicking works better if you don’t leave your implements in the lock,” he said, “although that is as likely to jam the damn thing as open it. You were lucky.”

“Joey White taught me how to make sure that didn’t happen,” Elliot’s voice was faint.

“Joey White knows a lot of interesting stuff,” Clint said, while rummaging in his bike’s side-bag for a maglight. “All right, lead on, MacDuff.”  
__

Joey White not only knew a lot of interesting stuff, he was waiting for them at the edge of town, an attenuated figure against the dark shadows of the fields that rose behind him to the water tower.

“I brought him,” Elliot whispered, gesturing back at Clint.

“No fuck,” Joey White said, and trained his lantern on Clint, who stood impassive and at ease, hands stuffed in his pockets. They exchanged unimpressed glances. “You gonna snitch?” he finally asked, with a jerk of his chin.

“Snitch?” Clint fought to tamp down the smile that was threatening at the corner of his lips. “Nope, not planning on it. You gonna show me, or are Elliot and I on our own?” 

Another long moment passed before the older boy sniffed and wiped his nose on his shirt.

“Yeah, come on.” He said, and led them up the hill. Elliot tagged along in his footsteps, looking back over his shoulder at Clint every so often.

They wended their way over a verge of high grass and weeds, into the alfalfa field and up the hill. In the distance, Clint realized he could see the same faint green glow that he’d last spotted the night before on his walk. They were headed right for it, zig-zagging slightly as their path wandered in the dark.

Joey stopped short at the top of a low ridge. Below him, a long narrow pond spread out, perhaps three times the width of a normal drainage ditch. The water was still and a green so dark it was nearly black at the corners. Hitched over it at intervals were long metal posts with grow-lights attached, glowing with green rods set where the usual heat lamps would have been. The arches were anchored in two long wheeled trailers, and the whole get-up was attached to a portable generator. Where the light hit it, the water was nearly neon. 

Clint reached out and poked the surface of the water with a long stick.

Several seconds later, when no angry fish appeared, he and the boys collectively exhaled and he tossed the stick aside. 

“Elliot, please go up there on the ridge and watch the road for me. Joey, the opposite side, and watch the farmhouse.” His guards posted, he started to poke about the rig, asking them questions as he did so.

“What made you guys come up here, anyway?”

“It was on the list after Joey’s Dad’s shed,” Elliot said, fidgeting and turning briefly to look at him. Clint snapped and pointed, and he turned back around. 

“You’ve got a list? Of what?”

“Creepy places to check out.” Joey said, after a long pause. “Dad’s shed, here-- the old water tower’s next.”

“Might want to save that one for a bit, boys. What made you decide to get me?” Clint grunted, straining a little as he tugged at one of the rods, his hand wrapped in his hoodie. The rod in question was dark and cool to the touch, clearly spent, so its loss was unlikely to be noticed in the night. This time, Elliot broke the long silence.

“Joey didn’t want to. He thought it was just, like, grow-lights. But I said it didn’t look anything like Grandpa’s lights in the basement, and what if something was going wrong? What if it was, like, polluting something?”

“You, ah, you’ve seen the lights in your Grandpa’s basement? Does he know that?”

“Um... no?”

“Probably best to keep it that way. Okay, and that was the only reason? Just because you needed someone tall enough to examine these damn things? Or was someone else out here?” Their silence, combined with the looks each attempted to shoot each other in the dark, combined to tell Clint pretty much all he needed to know. “Look,” he said, keeping his voice as natural as possible even while wresting the loosened rod from its setting, “if it was someone other than Dean, let me know. Or if someone threatened you, or saw you at all, just say yes. Otherwise, you don’t need to tell me.”

“They didn’t see us,” Joey said. Clint wrapped the rod up in his hoodie and jumped off the rig. He waited. “And they didn’t threaten us.”

“Who did they threaten?” Clint asked, voice as soft as he could make it.

“Uncle Dean.”

“Ah.”

“They said they were going to get him if he said anything,” Elliot said in a rush. “They said they were going to get him, and they were going to get Stu too, and everyone just better keep their mouths shut. And they had big guns, and he pointed one at Dean. And Joey’s D--” Joey came right off his mound and rushed Elliot.

“ _Shut up._ Just _shut up_ right now, Elliot. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. Why do you have to try and get people in trouble? You said you weren’t gonna snitch,” he rounded on Clint as the man got a hand in his shirt and pulled him off his friend. “You better not. You _better_ not.”

“Kid, none of this is going to get back to your parents, or get you in trouble. Okay?” Joey stared at him, eyes wide and lost in the starlight and the reflections from the green rods. He shook his head just the slightest bit.  
“It’s gonna need to be okay,” Clint told him. “Because that’s the best you get. I’ll find out what these are, first. If there’s nothing wrong with ‘em, I won’t tell a soul, okay?”

“...Okay.”  
__

They were nearly back to the Coulson-Steinitz family house, since Clint had insisted on escorting Elliot after Joey stormed off, when Elliot stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Are you really gonna not tell anyone on Joey? Not even his Dad?”

“Did I say that?”

“You said you weren’t gonna tell anyone until you knew what they were.”

“Hm. Well. I know what they are. At least, I’m pretty damn sure I do.”

“Does that mean we’re gonna get in trouble? ‘Cause Joey’s Dad’ll kill him if he knows we were there.”

“Your name’s not gonna come into it, no matter what. That’s a promise. Aw, hell, what’s going on?”

They stopped short at the front of the house. Every single light was ablaze, and Clint could see shadows moving against the curtains both upstairs and down.

“Well, hell,” he said after a moment. “Where’s your tree lead, Elliot?”

Up the Tree

“Whoa, Nat, ‘sme.” Clint held his hands up, steadying himself on her windowsill with his hip. Natasha waited several beats, then put her gun down at her side. Clint looked at it, then back behind him, and continued “I’m bringing back a friend.” She recognized the signal between them, and slid the gun under her pillow.

“Bring him in then. Ah, the prodigal son.” Elliot pulled himself into the window after Clint, blushing bright red when he realized his host was in a cami and sleep shorts, her hair around her shoulders and makeup off. Clint didn’t appear to notice, he was too busy looking around the room, taking in the celery-colored linens and the white-framed prints of peacocks and doves. 

“I’m told the Captain America collection is boxed and in the attic,” Natasha drawled, watching him. Clint’s answering grin was sheepish but bright. “I take it you two are looking for a discreet way of returning the child to bed?”

“Yep. When did the alarm go up, and who all is on the hunt?”

“Everyone, but it only went up five minutes ago. They haven’t had time to... hm. I think I know what to do. Elliot, wait for the count of thirty and then come out behind me. You’re going to want to ditch your jacket and shoes here. I’ll take care of them for you.” She slipped out into the corridor and Clint watched Elliot watch the door. He was counting under his breath. At thirty, he squared his shoulders, tried to set his face, and walked into the hall. It was terribly Phil of him.

After a couple minutes and a lot of confused shouting, Natasha slipped back in.

“What did you play? The ‘hey, he was in the bathroom all along’ card?” Clint asked her, casual about it.

“Pretty much. I’d heard them all coming and going, shouting for Elliot, and none of them did more than open the bathroom door, close it, and leave. I told them I’d found him asleep on the toilet.”

“Poor kid. That’s got to have been mortifying.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“In a few decades, maybe. I take it my way back out is the window?”

“Yes, and soonest. Sorry, Clint.” Natasha sat down on the bed and looked over at him where he lay sprawled. “I’m not sure if you needed to talk, at the bar, but I was busy convincing Leo Brown to take me to the hospital with him when he goes tomorrow.”

“When do you leave?” He asked, not bothering with with redundant questions like whether she’d been successful.

“Early morning. I’ll be back in time for the reunion, but I think I’ve filled Coulson in on everything just in case.”

“Not everything. Here,” Clint rolled over and pulled his hoodie bundle onto the bed with him. “Take this with you, stop by SHIELD regional if you can. I think we both know what it is, but it’s best to have them confirm it. And grab Elliot's shoe, too-- it’s probably the only algae sample you’re going to get, since I neglected to take along a collecting dish.” He told Natasha about the Joey and Elliot adventure as he unwrapped the rod. Natasha poked at it delicately, then found a shawl to wrap it in.

“If this is what we think it is, I doubt a hoodie was enough to protect us from any radiation, Clint,” she frowned. 

“That’s why I took the one that was spent, Nat, this isn’t my first rodeo. Speaking of which, care to explain what the fuck you were doing at dinner? I’ve seen you less loose-lipped on scopolamine.” Natasha shrugged, an almost invisible movement of shoulders and head together, as she turned her back to tuck the rod away.

“If you two would only get your act together, Clint, I wouldn’t have to do things like that.” He waited until she turned around and gave him an eyebrow before responding.

“Get what act together? Nat, I swear one of us is going out that window if you don’t give me a straight-- shit!” A knock on the bedroom door broke the heat that had been building in their double-glare.

“Natasha? Can I talk to you for a moment? I need you to decipher the care instructions on your sweater for me. I think they’re in Cyrillic?” Deborah’s voice sounded on the other side.

“What is it with that woman and her timing?” Clint hissed, and dropped out the window as Natasha opened the door, looking sleepy and innocent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I claim comic book science as my excuse. Also comic book agriculture. Next time, the technical plot points are going to revolve around knitting or beer or something else I already know. (Gasp as Clint saves the day by improvising icord handcuffs using his grappling line and two arrows! Shudder in horror as Phil realizes too late that his bottles were insufficiently sanitized! Thrill as Natasha spends two days straight playing Civ IV!)
> 
> Next time:  
> A Running Conversation  
> breakfasts missed- running partners- What Natasha knows- Plan of action
> 
> On Pants  
> On pants, emergency and otherwise- explanations- an untimely interruption


	13. A Running Conversation/ On Pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Running Conversation  
> breakfasts missed- running partners- What Natasha knows- Plan of action
> 
> On Pants  
> Pants, emergency and otherwise- explanations- an untimely interruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Beta my dear, you already know how much I benefited from you on this chapter.)
> 
>    
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**A Running Conversation**  
“Hey, Phil,” Clint smiled into his phone, idly twirling a piece of bacon in his leftover syrup. 

“Hey, Clint, where are you?”

“At the Blue Note, waiting for you two, why?” 

“Ah. Natasha already left for Chicago, so I saw her off then grabbed some cereal. I’m just finishing-- no, I’ve got that, Kelley, don’t worry-- now. I was checking to see if you wanted to go running this morning?”

“Well, I would, but Tilt is keeping me company here,” Clint waved at Tilt with the bacon-scrap as he said it, and Tilt gave him an easy smile in return. Breakfast dishes were scattered about the table between them, and they’d already refilled the coffee pot twice.

“Think you can get away? I’m just heading out the door now, I could meet you at the motel. I’d really like a partner. It's not as much fun alone.”

“Um,” Clint glanced out the window, then at Tilt, who was watching the remaining pancakes on his plate with a predatory air. “Um, yeah, good idea. Running sounds just great. Um, ten minutes?” He shoved the pancakes at Tilt, mumbling excuses even as he rose.

___

“Hurry....”

“Coming. Promise. _Fuck_.”

“Clint--”

“ _Phil._ Oh, holy-- oh God, _yes_.” Clint gave a last galvanic shudder and collapsed onto Phil’s chest, boneless and drenched. Phil’s chuckle rocked them both, and his arms slid up to wrap Clint’s shoulders in a loose embrace.

“Finally,” he sighed. Clint’s responding wiggle of contentment detached them, and after a moment he rolled sideways into a cuddle.

“Well _I_ feel exercised, anyway. We need to run more often.”

“Mmmmmmmm,” Phil pulled away, smiling at the adhesive sounds their skin made as it slid apart. “I could get behind that. Speaking of: scoot yours, Barton. I want the towel.” He pulled it up off the bedspread and took it to the bathroom.

“That was just adorable, the towel,” Clint said, following him in. “But motels still have maids, you know. You’re allowed to get the sheets dirty.”

“Yes, and the maids are likely related to half the town, Clint. How quickly do you want the state of your sheets known at the Blue Note?”

“They wouldn’t--”

“They would. Not in detail, probably, but yes.” Phil was wringing the towel out in the sink as he spoke. Clint watched him, naked chest reflected in the old scratched bathroom mirror, a blitzed smile hovering around his lips.

“Spent some time planning this one?” He waited until Phil turned to look at him before he grabbed a fresh towel and used it to wipe sweat and second-hand chest hair from his stomach. 

“Maybe I did. We got lucky last night; no guarantees we would again. I need a shower.”

“You don’t really want to do that, babe.”

“Not even if you join me?” Phil was opening the shower curtain as he spoke. Clint waited a beat. Phil yanked the curtain closed and spun. “On second thought, hand me a rag.”

“One sponge-bath coming up,” Clint laughed, scooping a scratchy square of terrycloth up in his hand.

“I see no one’s cleaned the shower since the Reagan administration, either.”

“Nope.”  
__

“So, who picked your lock, anyway?” Phil asked, turning to look over at Clint as they ran up the hill together, Washauwauk laid out behind them in the late morning sunlight.

“Alien carp,” Clint responded, “and speaking of which: Nat.”

“What about her?”

“Do you think maybe.... She said some things at breakfast the other day that made me wonder. Then last night I asked her what she thought she was doing at dinner, and she told me we needed to ‘get our acts together’. I, ah, really don’t think she knows. About us.” Phil’s eyes widened.

“Didn’t you tell her?”

“We agreed not to tell anyone at work!” 

“Yes, but. I didn’t think you’d think I meant Natasha!”

“We said no one, Phil! You didn’t even tell Fury. I wasn’t going to tell Nat after that! Trying not to mess this up, here.” The earnestness in Clint’s voice made Phil gulp.

“But before you left, you said you thought she was happy for us? I thought you must have told her.”

“No, I just assumed-- it’s _Nat_ , Phil. She knows everything. All the time. She can read me like a fucking Dick and Jane book. I looked at you, like, _five seconds_ too long the day you wore that stupid tie I got you in Orlando, and she knew I was in love with you. _I_ didn’t even know it then. It didn’t even occur to me she wouldn’t do that this time!” 

“She’d barely been back in country a week before you left for training, Clint. When did she have time to-- why did you think she was happy for us?”

“She looked me over when she came out of your office after she finished checking in, nodded her aggravating little nod and smiled that stupid tiny smile of hers and said ‘I’m glad to see you’re doing better.’ What _else_ was I supposed to think?” They’d stopped running now, were facing each other along the side of the road so that Clint could better gesticulate. Phil ran a hand through his hair.

“If it were anyone but Natasha I’d call you an idiot, but--”

“I know, right? But if she doesn’t know we’re together....”

“What, she’s trying to flush us out? Make one of us so frustrated at my parents that we end up doing something stupid? Was I supposed to make some big speech defending you?”

“I think maybe, yeah. And then I’d have to realize you were hot for me too, yadda yadda. Or vice versa. Or maybe you’d pull me aside later to reassure me or something.”

“What the hell is wrong with ‘hey, trust me--you two like each other, now kiss’?” Clint shrugged.

“This is Nat. She has... weird hang-ups sometimes. I actually did ask her to ask you if you liked me, once. She called me a first-grader.” Phil’s smile was indulgent, and he watched a blush run up to pink Clint’s ears.

“I agree with her. Did she tell you this was something you had to do on your own?”

“Yes. Or else I wouldn't 'appreciate it properly.' Did she talk to you at all?”

“There’ve been... hints, I suppose. Now that I think about it. Little raised eyebrows when she caught me looking at your, um, _form_ on the shooting range. Come to think of it, everyone cleared out of the range very quickly that day. Holy hell.”

“I know. She’s going to kill us when she finds out, now.” Clint shuddered, but it was a largely _pro forma_ shudder. He was already smiling as he turned to start running again. Phil shook his head and caught up, coming shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Wait a minute,” he said after a block, “Orlando was two years ago.”

“Yes, why?”

“So was the shooting range incident. She’s known since _then_ and she didn’t say anything? _I_ might kill _her_.”  
__

“All right, so.” They had rounded the last corner on their way back down the county road. Stands of tansy and high grasses were giving way to bordered lawns, and the gravel shoulders were starting to widen into parking lanes. Phil and Clint slackened their pace a little, so that Phil could finish giving instructions. “It’s settled. Natasha and I will go to the reunion as planned, and I’ll attempt to distract the various and sundry Whites while Natasha gets Dean White away and makes him help her dismantle the gamma ray grow-light trailer and get it somewhere safe. And I can’t believe I just said that sentence.”

“Yep. On both counts.” Clint said, nodding his head to the rhythm of their jog.

“And you’ll follow Dad and the Boys, try to prevent them from blowing up whatever it is they’re going to blow up.” 

“Yep again. I still think you should just _talk_ to him first.”

“There's no gain to be had there. All he has to do is get a message to one of the Boys to go on without him. We don’t know where they’re targeting, and we don’t know where their dynamite is.”

“If you ask him to call it off, maybe he’ll listen to you?” He shrugged as he said it. 

“Clint,” Phil stopped in front of him on the street, holding him in place with hands at his shoulders. “He’s not going to start now. You should get back to the motel and get ready.”

“No need, boss. I figured that’s how the chore breakdown would go-- I’ve already hidden my bow and other gear out behind your parents’ shed.”

“Of course you did. I should have expected it. Thank you for being so thoroughly prepared to stalk my father.” A chance to sleep and the perspective of the morning had clearly done little to reconcile Phil to this new view on his father; he still got that awful little set of vertical creases between his eyebrows when the subject had to be discussed.

“Anytime, boss, anytime," Clint said, trying to placate him. "D’you want me to come in, or should I wait for him behind the bushes?” The sun was already past its zenith, one of the more staid little churches in town had rung noon miles back, and Clint’s stomach growled an addition to the conversation. Phil laughed.

“Easier to come in, have some lunch. You’ll be able to keep an eye-- um. Mom?” Deborah had opened the door into his face. She was looking at Clint, not at him.

“Care to explain _these_?” She asked him, her voice and face as impassive as if she, too, could have been called Agent. She held up a pair of jeans.

**On Pants**

“Would you care to explain how a pair of _your_ pants got into _my_ laundry last night?” Deborah hissed, shaking the jeans in Clint’s face.

“What makes you think they’re Clint’s jeans, Mom? There are three adult men in this house at the moment.” Phil asked, making an abortive grab for them. He’d herded his mother before him into the hallway. Clint had shut the door behind him, taking his time about it, but that had been the last reprieve. Deborah loomed in the hallway like Goliath in a muumuu, and a lifetime’s use of teacher voice was proving its worth. Clint already had his hands stuffed in his pockets and was beginning to turtle into himself.

Phil’s question only served to turn the baleful eye on him. Deborah snorted, and held up the back waistband of the pants.

 _Property of C. Barton_ was written on the waistband in shaky black sharpie. Phil turned to Clint and blinked, once. Clint huffed at him.

“That’s what Sitwell thinks is funny after about five beers and ten s’mores. Never let him near a laundry marker. He said it was some kind of camp thing his mother used to do to him.”

“It’s not funny now.”

“I _know_.” 

“I’m still waiting for an answer, young man.” Her foot was tapping. 

“Emergency pants?” Clint tried. 

“What?”

“I only realized after dinner that I’d gotten a little fish-covered myself. I asked Phil to loan me something so I could change? And I forgot to take my own jeans home?”

“And that’s your final explanation?”

“Yeah?”

“Despite the fact that I clearly saw you leave this house last night, in Natasha’s company, in these jeans?” She poked her finger through a hole in the knee-- one Phil would certainly never have allowed on his own jeans.

“Ah. I, um.”

“Look, Mom--” Phil tried to break in. His mother shot him a glare, and then softened suddenly, somewhere behind the rage. He took a quick, involuntary step backwards. 

“Phil,” she said. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m so sorry, but I think it’s better to do this now. I’d been wondering for a while.” There were torturers (had been-- they weren’t around anymore) whose gentle voices he trusted more than that one, at that moment.

“Wondering?” he prompted. She spun back to Clint. He backed himself nearly into the wall. 

“Do you think I didn’t hear you last night, Mr. Barton? You thought you were so sneaky, didn’t you?”

“Er... what?”

“What did you do, come in through the window?”

“Um....”

“ _Answer_ me, young man. _Do you deny that you were in Natasha’s room last night?_ ”

“Natasha’s room?” Phil’s exclamation was nearly drowned out by Clint’s own.

“I, ah--” he glanced at Phil, at the jeans, back at Phil, at the top of the stairs as if he were expecting someone to emerge and save him.

“I take it that’s a ‘yes,’” Deborah continued, inexorably. She tossed the pants to the floor in front of him. Clint edged his feet away from them.  
“After all my son’s done for you--” Phil blinked, looked like he wanted to protest, but Deborah swept on, “you two repay him like _this_? He thinks you’re his friends, for God’s sake. You have _no shame_. Phil--” her hand came up to flutter about her throat.

"Mom?"

“I’m sorry you had to hear about this. But I’d wondered. Since Clint showed up at our door with that _ridiculous_ story, I’d wondered. I had hoped I was wrong. And after dinner last night and the way they behaved....” Her pause was long enough for Clint to breathe in and open his mouth, but she wasn’t finished. “But you said you trusted them, and I wanted to believe it.” She spun again, and shook a finger in Clint’s face as he flinched. “You neither of you deserve him.”

“Mom--”

“What were you going to do, leave him? Or just let it go on, keep on betraying him?”

“I would _never_ ,” Clint began, spurred back to life, “and she would never. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“I’m not blind. She’s more comfortable with _you_ than with my son. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you never slept with that woman?”

“Ah-- okay, yes, but it was a long time ago. Long before Phil.” He turned and shrugged. Phil rolled his eyes.

“Mom, I knew perfectly well that they used to be an item. They’re not anymore.”

“I’d like to believe that, Phil,” his mother told him, and she sounded sincere. She did. “I’d like to think you have better taste in friends than that. After last night, especially. But honey, dear, don’t you see how different Natasha’s been acting compared to at the wedding? And you didn’t mention her for a year-- and _Clint_ here....” 

_Clint here_ held up his hands to ward her off.

“I can explain.” he said. She narrowed her eyes at him. Phil raised his eyebrows. The ticking of the kitchen wall-clock became increasingly loud in the stifling air of the hallway. He glanced away, up the stairs, where a pair of small feet, belonging to Elliot, suddenly disappeared from view. Clint swept his hands through his hair and pulled, shook his head.

Deborah Steinitz, unfortunately for him, knew how to let a moment stretch and break under its own weight.

“I can’t right _now_ ,” he amended, slumping. “But I can. I swear, though, I _swear_ neither of us would ever do anything to hurt Phil.” His eyes never left hers. 

“I am wading through a really extraordinary number of lies right now,” she said to him, nearly pleasant, “and I don’t need to have any more given to me, especially not by the likes of _you_. So thank you for not trying.That, at least, is a mercy. I would like to have you out of this house now, please.”

“ _Mom_ ,” Phil’s voice was equally quiet, nearly strangled. “Let _me_ explain.”

The thunderous knocking on the front door startled them all for a moment. Before anyone could move towards it, the door burst open and a woman flung herself at Phil in a whirlwind of brown hair, loose jacket, billowing skirt.

“Phil, you have to help me. Please. I’m desperate-- Leo said-- I’m afraid he’ll die--” Pamela buried her head in his shoulder and sobbed.

“Of course,” Clint muttered, throwing his hands up in the air. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, at least this time I didn’t end it on the knock. 
> 
> Next time:
> 
> Clint and Deborah  
> settling Pamela-- Clint, of all people -- drive-by Natasha-- missed windows
> 
> Pamela and Phil  
> Pamela explains herself-- Phil makes a promise-- Phil faces the fallout


	14. Clint and Deborah/ Pamela and Phil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Deborah  
> settling Pamela-- Clint, of all people -- drive-by Natasha-- missed windows
> 
> Pamela and Phil  
> Pamela explains herself-- Phil makes a promise-- Phil faces the fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

Clint and Deborah

"Pamela," Deborah shifted into comfort mode with truly frightening speed. "let's get you into the living room, dear, and sitting down. Clint, go get her some water. Now. You can tell us what's wrong, don't worry. We'll help."

Pamela shook her head violently and clung more tightly to Phil. 

"No, no, I don't want to worry-- just private-- I need--" Phil cut her off by hugging her tighter. When she relaxed into him, he slipped backwards out of her arms and braced her by the shoulders.

"That's all right, just you and me. Mom, is there a kleenex box handy? Clint, the water, thank you. Pam, come with me." 

Within the matter of a minute, he'd ensconced himself and his ex-whatever in the far corner of the living room, where two armchairs were nestled among an assortment of african violets and an overwhelming sort of spider plant. The water and kleenex had been received, their bearers thanked, and he'd shut the door on them with the barest hint of apology in his eyes, mostly directed at Clint.

Clint watched the closed door for a moment in silence, Deborah lurking behind his back.

"Well that's an interesting turn of events," she said after a while, an odd little note of satisfaction in her tone. Clint raised an eyebrow she couldn't see, and closed his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like that?" he said, "If Phil were to fall in love here and move back."

"I would," she replied. "I doubt Pamela's husband would appreciate it. Then again," she could have been musing on the weather, "I never did see what she saw in Stu."

"Convenient. And ruthless."

"Yes. There's not a mother alive who would feel differently."

"I wouldn't know." Clint's voice caught, and Deborah was silent at his back for a moment.  
"It's not going to happen, anyway," she continued finally. "No, you and Natasha between you ruined the best bet for anything resembling a normal life that I'd seen on his horizon in a very long while." Her voice was idle, almost academic, and Clint steadfastly stared at the door. 

"Natasha never did do normal well," he said, "And neither do I."

"Yes, I can tell."

"But we're not cheating on Phil. And he can handle his own life, he always has." He finally turned, and his face was shuttered. "Of all of us, he's the least in need of protection."A tiny rueful little smile tried to break through. "Oh, I try anyway, when he needs it, whether he thinks he does or not. But the truth is he protects us." He jerked his head towards the closed door. "He's a goddamn Boy Scout, after all. And your help is just hurting him more right now, or don't you know he's just been trying to protect _you?_ "

"Clint, he doesn't get to protect me. I'm his mother."

"Then who _does_ he get to protect? Because from where I'm standing, you're his family and you're his first responsibility, even if you're all completely fucked up about each other. Just having you at all is a goddamn privilege. And you have the nerve to stand here waving my fucking jeans in my face like _I'm_ the one hurting him? When you threw everything his adult life's been _about_ back in his?" He scooped the jeans off the floor where they'd lain forgotten as he spoke, and flung them at her. Her hands seized on the fabric, and she stared back at him for a very long moment, then looked down at them. And back up. All the Goliath in her was gone; her eyes were saucer-wide and her mouth opened and closed for a moment as if she didn't know how to breathe on land.

"You and Natasha aren't cheating on Phil." Her voice, when she found it, cracked like an alkali flat in the heat. 

"We're not." He said evenly, but he was beginning to breathe shallow, to tense his muscles for flight. 

"Emergency pants' you said. You borrowed a pair of Phil's."

"I did."

"Are you and my...." she broke off and shook her head, started again. "Is it all of you _together_ or is he... no, he wouldn't do that-- would he?" Again. "I just never expected something like this-- and with someone like _you_ of all people."  
Bitter amusement hung on his face. 

"With me of all people. Thanks for that. Are you going to repeat the whole damn conversation, this time with Natasha in Phil's place and vice versa, or is it not the same now?"

"What conversation?" Natasha asked, coming in from the kitchen and depositing her purse on a side table. Clint swept a hand to Deborah, in invitation. Natasha looked over at him with a frown.

"I saw Gary heading down the road in his car as I was coming in just now," she told him. Clint closed his eyes and swore, bringing Deborah's head back around to him. He'd dropped his face into his hands, and scrubbed vigorously for a moment, before straightening up.

"You do what you need to do," he told Deborah, "makes no difference to me. I've just gotta--" he was out the kitchen door by the time Deborah could open her mouth. She clutched the jeans between her hands, waiting as the screen door slammed in the kitchen entryway.

"Where's Phil?" Natasha asked, eyeing her closely.

Deborah pointed at the door, where faint echoes of sobbing had since given way to a low murmur of voices. Natasha put an ear to it still for a long moment, then came away shaking her own head.

"Tell him I'll meet him at the reunion; something's come up." As she began to stalk out, Deborah wheeled after her.  
"I heard Clint in your room last night," she said. "Why was he there?" Natasha stopped and looked her over. Looked up the stairs for a long moment.

"He was bringing me an algae sample." She was already pulling out her cell phone and texting away as she left.

 

**Phil and Pamela**

Phil wrapped Pamela's fingers around the water glass Clint had brought, staring into it himself for a moment before sitting back. She held it to her lips with both hands still clutching it and sipped. When she sat back and looked up at him, he switched his head tilt from the left to the right side and twitched the corners of his lips into a near-smile. 

"I... um...."

"Take your time, Pam, it's all right." She exhaled, watched him again, and sighed when she got no change out of him.

"I went to Leo as soon as he got back into town, and he said to go to you. He told me Marty's already talked to you and you and Natasha are helping him."

"He did and we are."

"So I came to you."

"I noticed."

"Phil! Stop it, that's creepy. Smile or frown or _something._ "

"I'm sorry," he said, and managed to look it, with a little hint of amusement thrown in. "It's an automatic response these days. Pam," he leaned forward and clasped her shoulder. "I can help you, but you're going to have to get around to telling me what I'm helping you with."

"They're going to kill him, Phil. My husband. They're going to kill Stu." 

"Who's they'? And why? Look, start from the beginning."

Pamela did. Very much from the beginning. Stu, it turned out, had been laid off from a housing construction firm when the bubble had burst, and had been doing odd jobs ever since. Up until six months ago, when he got a hauling and maintenance contract that he'd initially been over the moon about. Good money -- cash under the table so no taxes. It had odd hours: sometimes day and sometimes late evening or even midnight. Pamela'd hated it, but they hadn't had much choice. Braces. Soccer. Hockey. The kids' tree frogs. The mortgage. 

At first, she'd assumed it was the late nights that were causing the stress, the lack of communication between them, and the way he took to drinking at the Same Old Place long after the factory-whistle crowd had gone home. But as it got worse, she demanded answers. And he gave them, cautiously at first, but the bits all added together eventually into something damning.  
Initially, the Mayor had asked him to make some improvements to the old town water tower. Extra concrete inside the masonry, a generator hidden on the lower level and electricity rigged above. A bucket pulley system inside. Then he'd been asked to move on to helping Dean White with a whole range of new grow-lights and technology, and Erwin had taken over at the tower.  
Eventually, the two of them had been asked to start using the green rods-- and Mary refused to tell them what those rods were for, except that she suspected they'd enhance the growth of the phytoplankton in the algae ponds. He helped set up harvesting equipment, hell he helped harvest when Erwin was busy.  
He chased the town teenagers away when they got too close. Until Todd Brown had gotten... ill. And Stu had started to notice some other local teens with similar anger-management issues. The old water tower still leaked-- sweated really-- around the seams. The ground around the balcony was always damp, but it never bothered the kids.  
It began to bother Stu, and he told Dean, and it began to bother Dean. Then Dean got hit in the head with a huge green fish and they both went into full revolt.

"She... she told them not to say anything," Pamela said, adding another kleenex to the growing mound of soggy crumpled ones next to her chair. "Stu didn't think too much of it; he and Dean met last night to talk about taking down the lighting array. But Erwin showed up, and he told them he was going to kill them if they did anything funny. Stu got out of there, took Dean home and came and told me."

"And that's it? Do you think Erwin would follow through on the threat?" Phil had been crouched in a sitting position since midway through the story, her hands in his.

"That's just it, Phil," she wailed, "Stu can't find Dean _anywhere_ this morning. I think maybe they _have_ followed through, and they're going to kill Stu next! Please help me, please. I can't lose him!"

Phil sat back on his heels and sighed.

"Of course we're going to help you. But Stu's going to have to help us dismantle the array. And show us how things work in the water tower."

"But they'll--"

"They'll have to get through me first, Pam. Let's get you up, and home. Calm down, wipe your eyes, and go tell Stu what he has to do. We'll meet you at the reunion. Everyone will expect us to chat, anyway." She nodded up at him, powder blue eyes limpid and curls clinging damply to her forehead. He brushed one off. "I'll take care of everything, I promise."

__

As he closed the front door after Pamela, he heard a rustle. His mother was behind him in the hallway. Turning, he found her watching him with an expression on her face like someone had just eaten her puppy.

"Mom?" He stuffed his hands in his pockets in an overly elaborate imitation of nonchalance.

"Natasha said she'd meet you at the reunion." she said.

"Ah."

"Clint left in a hurry."

"Ah?"

"I don't think... I don't think I can look at you just now, Phillip."

"Mom?" He started forward, letting confusion seep past the pleasant blandness he'd armed himself with. She flinched away from him, not meeting his eyes. "Mom, what happened?"

"Nothing. I'm just disappointed in my son, that's all."

"Mom, really, I can explain--" 

"I can't-- I don't want to hear it yet. Go away, Phillip. Go have your reunion and spend time with Natasha, if that's still what you want, and just... go _away_ for a while. Give me time to think." 

"Think about-- oh. Clint told you."

"More or less."

"Okay, that's... okay. I was going to. I just..." he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the door. "After the reunion. We'll talk then?" When she didn't answer, he sighed. "Away. Right. I'll see you... later." He didn't move for a long moment, watching her.

"Phil?" she whispered as he turned to go into the study. He left his hand on the knob as he turned back. She'd wrapped her arms tightly around herself. "I just... well first of all, I didn't realize-- we thought it was just a _phase_ \-- and I know that's a stupid thing to say, but you were so confused back then, with everything else that was going on. And now, I guess... I want you to be happy, I do. I just don't understand how any of this can possibly have that outcome. I don't see how the son I raised, the good son, could have lied to his family and his friends. Just... think about that. Tonight." She disappeared into the living room, where he could hear her methodically cleaning up a mountain of soggy kleenex.

The buzz in his pocket brought him back to the present, and he pulled out his cell phone.

 _I heard the end of your conversation with P_., Natasha had texted. _Off to find D._ The phone buzzed again.

_Watch out for your Mom. I think Clint broke her._

_Your timing is impeccable as always_ , he wrote, then deleted it with savage little jabs of his thumbs.

He started one to Clint instead. It said _What the hell did you tell Mom_? for a nanosecond before it disappeared under the censorious thumb. Then it read _I hope you're okay_ for about a second and a half. Then _Congratulations, I don't think I've seen her speechless before_ , or it would have if he hadn't started deleting it partway through. _I'm sorry, it should have been me_ made it ten seconds, _I love you_ made it a good thirty, and _Don't beat yourself up, I'll see you after, DW AWOL_ made it all the way out into the ether. He slammed the phone down on the bed before he could be tempted to do more.

A minute later, he scooped the phone back up, texted _water tower!_ and flung it from him into the field of rejected tie options that was growing on the bed.  
__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: 
> 
> Clint and Marty  
> missed connections-- Clint and Marty-- brief reminiscences
> 
> Reunion  
> arrival of all and sundry- a chat with Stu- a chat with Marty- departures of sundry
> 
> That's right, there's actually going to be a reunion scene in this story about a high school reunion. For, you know, a half chapter.


	15. Clint and Marty/ Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Marty  
> missed connections-- Clint and Marty-- brief reminiscences
> 
> Reunion  
> arrival of all and sundry- a chat with Stu- a chat with Marty- departures of sundry- a phone call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going down and the Whites are on the move. And yet we still find time for some last bits of character-based drama. Thank you all as always for the comments-- they've made stalking wireless worth it. (The Bailey's malt I'm currently consuming hasn't hurt, either.)
> 
> To my fabulous beta: I have been spoiled having you 24/7 this week, and doubly-spoiled to have you running around tracking the elusive wireless with me.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Clint and Marty**

 

Clint knocked on the trailer door, feeling a little awkward with his quiver and bow slung openly over his back. He'd left most of his field gear with Agent Sitwell, since he was travelling light. He regretted it now, with his motorcycle jacket and a worn pair of jeans only real protection in case of, well, contingencies, and half his personal armament going back to New York via jet. He shifted from foot to foot, standing on the rickety wheelchair ramp and looking down at a garden gnome who was squatting and leering from among the overgrown bushes below.

Squatting, leering, and pantsless. He hadn't even known they made those. He could have gone a while without-- the screen door opened, and he slid out of the way.

"You are not who I expected," Marty told him, looking up from the doorway. He was already mostly dressed for the reunion in a button-down shirt, Dockers, his artificial legs, even a pair of loafers. It gave him the look of a business-casual cadaver. He seemed so utterly unphased by the amount of weaponry Clint was sporting that Clint blinked.

"Who did you expect?"

"Does it matter? Come in. I'd say have coffee, but I imagine you can't stay long."

"Indeed I can't. What exactly was Gary Coulson storing in your barn, Marty?" 

"What makes you think I know?"

"I don't think he's the type to use another man's barn without asking first. And I already know he was storing a gram scale, several large boxes of cigarette papers, and enough dried product to either make half of Washauwauk Area Senior High-- or perhaps one advanced cancer patient-- very mellow. There were also a bunch of ropes and bungees. And I know he's headed off to blow up the water tower. I just want to know what was in the box."

The water tower tip had arrived just before Clint rang the doorbell, while he was standing on the porch shaking his head indulgently over the previous text. The Boys had already cleared Marty's shed of what the blank spots in the dust revealed to have been several coils of ropes and bungees and a large box of... something. He just needed to know whether that something was more explosives, electronics for a remote timer, or just back issues of the Utne Reader.

Plus, Phil's text had also mentioned Dean's disappearance, which meant things were moving fast. Someone ought to warn Marty he might be next, and there wasn't anyone else around to do it. Marty smirked at him and nodded his head at Clint's bow.

"I had you figured as a sniper from the way you played your bass." He said. "But that, that's almost worth the visit alone." His laugh was short. "No wonder Phil collected you."

"I'm-- what?"

"He collected you. He used to do that, back in the Army. Collected guys, but never took 'em out of the box, you know? Has he taken you out?"

"Can we have the pissing match later? I like to know what kind of bomb I need to de-fuse before I have to do it, ideally."

"Bomb?" Marty sat up straight, the suddenness of the motion or the shock sending him into a coughing fit. "What the hell d'you mean a bomb?" he gasped when he could speak again." Wait-- you were serious about him blowing up the water tower?" The longest part of filling Marty in was waiting while he unleashed a series of muttered curses, interspersed with choking.

"That damn bastard. What the hell kind of idea is that, blowing up the water tower? Just release all the damned fish down the hill and right down into the fucking creek. And he calls himself a pacifist. Goddamn that man, and his band, and the horse they rode in on." He broke for breath. "I knew the tension was building between them and the old-time Washauwauk crowd, but I didn't realize they felt this desperate. All right," he exhaled. "let's start over." He held out his hand, waggled it until Clint took it, and shook.

"I'm Marty. You're here to know what _relevant_ illegal activities my friend Gary, father of your friend Phil, is up to." Clint nodded his head.

"I saw absolutely nothing else in that shed whatsoever, and I'm sure I'm not going to find anything in any of your fields that I walk through, either. Sorry for even bringing that up."

"Pain makes a man defensive."

"I know that. What was in Gary's box?"

"Um. That was actually my box. Blasting caps, detonation cord, night vision goggles-- you know: souvenirs from various deployments."

"Blasting caps are souve-- you know what, never mind. So basically, add dynamite, and he could have that entire tower wired and ready to blow and we don't know what the trigger would be."

"Essentially. Want that coffee now? Irish, maybe?"

"Yeah, but apparently I've got to go do this thing where I save Phil's Dad, because it would be pretty awkward if I didn't. Phil likes his Dad. No-- okay, that's not true. But he does love his Dad, so I'd better get going." He set down his bow, though, long enough to re-adjust several of his other assorted tools for easier access. Marty watched him, then went over to a drawer in the cabinet by his refrigerator, and drew out a leatherman.

"Just in case the thing is wired up to a timer."

"Oh, god, we better hope not. I am hopeless with wires." He took the leatherman anyway, since his own was on the aformentioned jet. "Marty? Rumor has it Dean White's disappeared. It'd probably be safest for you if you didn't go anywhere with... well, with any White, really, for a while."

"Huh. If they're onto all of us too, we're fucking screwed-- there are at least a dozen of 'em I'd guess have been in on this. Still, what're they gonna do with me? Kill a dead man a few months earlier? The Army took care of that years ago when they sent me in to demolish buildings that turned out to be fucking stuffed with asbestos. So let 'em do me a favor, and if I don't want 'em to, well.... I can take care of myself, you know." Marty patted the small of his back, in a universal _I'm packin'_ gesture. Clint raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Hey, I'm not an idiot. Phil wants to make his move, he'll do it at the reunion, and I may be dying, but I'm not so dead I can't still watch his six. Especially now I know the Whites are riled and he sent you off." That earned him an outright frown.

"Told you Phil had a habit of collecting." Marty said. 

"And here I thought Pamela was the one I needed to worry about." Clint laughed, because the other options were really not acceptable.

"Ah, Pamela. Well, _her_ he took out of the box. And home to his parents. As for me, I'm no rival. Whatever mixed-up semi-crush he had on me was gone decades ago. And I don't swing that way, though I don't care that he does. Anyway I'm not being fair to him; I don't think he knew at the time. That taking guys out of the box-- me or anyone else-- was even an option he wanted, I mean. He didn't figure that out 'till after we were both discharged, and then it was close to a drive-by coming out. He told his parents he was bi and he was going to New York to work for the International Monetary Whatever in practically the same breath. It's a helluva way to do it, yeah?"

Clint, who had so recently faced down Deborah and the pants, could only blanch in agreement. 

"That's the last time I heard anything about his love life. Up until he brought Natasha home, anyway." Marty continued. "So in the absence of further evidence, I think his parents just decided to ignore it. Me, I just hoped he really had figured it out. What little I caught of Natasha I definitely liked, but nothing exactly screamed commitment. But you? Whatever he's doing with you, won't you please do yourself a favor and make him decide? Because watching the two of you last night hurt."

"You know, Phil's right: you really _suck_ at small-talk."

"You're not so great yourself." But they were both smiling when Clint left.  
___  
Marty watched Clint go, vaulting over the ramp's railing probably just because he could, then vanishing into the windrow. Then he turned to the drawer he'd just opened for the leatherman, and pulled a small case from the very back. He carefully unrolled the throwing knives in their arm band, and slid it up under his sleeves. 

Leo picked him up in his SUV, slid his arms under Marty's now atrophied thighs, and hoisted him into the front seat. The wheelchair was collapsed into the trunk and they left. Leo's ramblings-- mostly about Todd, about Natasha taking samples and the strange doctors that showed up and took over an amazingly short time later-- washed over him as the late afternoon light pierced his eyes. 

**Reunion**

Washauwauk Area High School's gymnasium was like most others of its class: cavernous, dim, squeaky-floored and lined with rows of drop-down bleachers, currently being stored vertically. The decorating committee had draped red and black bunting up and down the bleachers and duct-taped droopy helium balloon clusters at the sides of the buffet and registration tables.

The hall was mostly full already, the "all-years" claim being vindicated by three septuagenarians and a kid who must have graduated in the spring. In between, the age range consisted mostly of the 20th-40th reunion goers, clustered at the decade marks. These were the alums old enough to want to reunite, even the majority who had never left Washauwauk, but young enough not to have moved the reunion largely to the plots at Bonaventure Memorial on the edge of town. 

Phil moved through the reunion lightly, passing from group to group with nods, smiles, and little exchanges that never lasted more than a couple minutes. He spent some time picking out the moved-aways from the stayed-heres as he did so. The ones who had moved away seemed to gravitate towards each other, clumping at tables and hunched over photographs, smartphones, and drinks. Reuben was caught in one of the clumps, telling the story of Elliot, Noah, and the fish as he made his excuses for Kelley's absence. Noah was apparently not yet fully recovered from his experience, and had done a credible imitation of a fainting peasant lass when told his parents were leaving him. Reuben and Kelley had flipped a coin for the opportunity to get out of the house.

Of the locals, the majority of them were centered around the drinks table or hanging out near the exits. A large number of those in attendance went by the surname White, but the entire town had been founded by three original White brothers, so that was hardly surprising. Phil avoided them, though he kept half an eye out to see who did or did not cluster around Mary White or Erwin. That the town's police chief and two officers were part of Mary's inner circle was unsurprising, given what Clint had overheard Deloris say.

The few families who, like the Browns and the Coulson-Steinitzs, the stringbean Stonebenders and the Koerners, had moved into Washauwauk sometime in the last several decades were mostly hanging out with the others who had moved away. Those families had moved into town in a clump as well, fleeing modernity for the relative safety of hobby farms, small town civil service, or home offices. The rest of the Close Enough to Fernton Boys would have been part of that crowd, had they been in attendance. 

Pamela materialized at his elbow, looking drawn and nervous and still lovely in a sort of faded way in her cornflower sheath and cardigan. 

"We're ready," she told him after they greeted each other. He let himself be tugged over to an empty table, where Stuart Tyler sat picking at a mound of cheesy potatoes and looking mutinous. Stu had been one of those sulky teens who seemed to think the most attractive thing one could do was wax sarcastic at the object of one's affection. It had worked pretty well for him, as Phil remembered, given that his sarcastic quips had been delivered with soft lips and a set of doe-eyes. It had certainly worked on Pamela. 

Stu had grown out of the sarcasm and into the doe-eyes, and would now have been a very good-looking man if he was not, at the moment, apparently set on imitating a rabbit.

"Stu," Phil said, sitting down across from him.

"Phillip Coulson," Stu drawled. "Come to save me?" 

It was testament to his self-control, and to Pamela's quelling hand on his shoulder, that Phil did not get up and walk away.

"No, I've come over to tell you what you're going to do tonight if you want to avoid being killed or put in jail, Stu." He didn't wait for a response before continuing, and to Stu's credit he did pay attention, even made a few suggestions and described the special rig on his pick-up that was used for moving the grow-light trailers with minimal disruption to the gamma ray rods. Pamela listened with one hand on his, alternately stroking and squeezing. 

"All right," Phil said at last, "I'll give you the high sign when we're ready to go, and I'll deliver you to my friend Natasha, who will take you up to the rig."

"You not going yourself, huh? Leaving the dirty work to your girl?"

"No. I get the feeling I'm going to have work to do back here, keeping the Whites off your tail. Unless you'd prefer I not." He got up and left without waiting for an answer.

__

The buffet table was mostly potluck, with the monetary contributions of the cooking-impaired alums being split between drinks and a large tray of sandwich meats, cheeses, and sliver dollar buns. Leo had wheeled Marty past those and the myriad potato salads and casseroles. He dropped Marty next to the bounty of ambrosia salads, fruit cocktail-studded jello molds and crock pots bubbling over with vaguely meaty smells. Marty looked around, a little lost, while Leo wandered off to recruit some of the younger graduates into helping lift kegs from the back of the SUV.

."Hey, Marty," a familiar voice said behind him, "how're you?" Two hands enveloped the handles on the back of his wheelchair.

"Erwin," Marty said slowly. "How's the head after last night?" Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Phil Coulson as Pamela Brown came up to him and began to drag him across the room. He wore this polite little company smile on his face and a striped tie and navy suit combination that probably suited New York just great but was failing to blend in with, well, anything here. This was Washauwauk; for significant numbers of the alumni fancy dress meant polishing their wallet chain. Phil wasn't trying to blend in with the herd tonight, he was in uniform. Things were about to go down.

"Always fine, Marty, I've got a head like a hammer, you know that." Phil was sitting down next to Stu and shaking hands. Pamela sat down across from them and blocked Marty's view. Above and behind him, he heard Erwin stifle a curse.

"Something wrong?" he asked, though he really should not have.

"Nothing wrong with me," Erwin said, rocking the chair a little. "How'bout you? You looked mighty lonely over here."

"Don't worry, Er, I've got him," Leo said, coming up on Marty's five o'clock. "I was just getting the kegs set up."

"Oh, yeah, what you got over there?" Erwin gave no indication he was going to be moving in this half century. Leo crowded in closer. Over at the table, Stu was shaking his head, glancing in their direction. 

"Marty, I haven't gotten to see you yet this visit," Reuben said from about forty feet out. He waved as he did. "Natasha told me she met you last night. What did you think? Oh, Erwin, Leo, hey." Behind him, Marty felt the moment when Erwin's hands released his chair, and he flipped the brakes and rolled himself up to Reuben before he'd even thought. Erwin mumbled something about needing to check in, and left.

"What the hell was that?" Reuben asked him, watching Erwin walk away. Marty shrugged.

"Beats the hell outta me. How's the family been? Kelley kill your Mom yet?" Reuben frowned.

"Not yet; we'll see after tonight. Mom's been kinda Phil-focused this trip. It's a nice change of pace, in a way. Or it was-- he's done something to piss her off today. I don't know what precisely. She won't talk about it, but you could hear the yelling all over the house. You never did tell me what you thought of Natasha?"

"I think I wish I'd met her a couple years back, hell even a couple months back. I might not have survived to have the cancer kill me, though."

"Mmm. Phil would theoretically have something to say about that. How about Clint?"

"How _about_ Clint?" Marty replied. He held Reuben's glance for a long moment, then turned his gaze past his shoulder, and raised his voice. "He came to see me this afternoon. Quite a pleasant surprise."

"I imagine it was," Phil said. Reuben spun to find himself nearly toe-to-toe with his brother, whose not-a-smile crinkled briefly upwards as Reuben flinched.

"What did he say?" Reuben asked. Marty shrugged, holding Phil's glance.

"Not a lot. We talked about your Dad. He borrowed a leatherman. We chatted a bit about the past. Embarrassing Phil stories." Marty paused a moment, waiting, until Phil cleared his throat. "And he went to do some touristing up at the old water tower. How was your chat with old Stu over there?" 

Phil's face stayed pleasant, but his eyes rolled, possibly involuntarily.

"Thank you again for dragging me out of this town, Marty. My god, what did she ever see in him?"

"He had a nice truck, I hear. No second thoughts? You seemed a bit nostalgic yesterday."

"No," Phil frowned. "She always deserved better than me." Marty grunted at the careful way he enunciated the sentence.

"He's been just fine to her for most of their marriage, Phil," he said. "And he's a good father to their kids. He's just a coward about some things." 

"Yes, well. He doesn't get to be one tonight." Reuben was glancing between the two of them, eyebrows arched in an expression of polite interest that sat a little too wide-eyed on him.

"Who doesn't get to be what?" Leo asked, coming up to hear the last part of that sentence. "Never mind, don't answer that. Tell me something, guys, how many Whites do you count in this room?" The three of them looked around.

"Heather's over there sitting next to Stu," Marty said, pointing to a rangy woman still in her police uniform, who was head and shoulders too far into Stu's personal space, "And is that Erwin by the door? Well, that's odd. This place was half-Whites about ten minutes ago. Hey, Phil?" But Phil was busily tapping something on his phone instead of listening.

"Stu looks desperate," Phil said, although he was looking nowhere near the table. "Reuben, why don't you go and rescue him? Leo, go with him, I'll meet him outside in the parking lot." His voice was calm, casual even. Yet somehow, both Leo and Reuben were several yards across the room before Reuben stopped for a moment to look back, as if he wasn't sure how he'd gotten there.

Phil wasn't paying attention to them; he'd crouched down next to Marty. He was still playing with his phone. Marty leaned in.

"They start without you?"

"Ahead of schedule, yeah. They must have gotten wind of the Boys' idiocy, or Stu or Dean must have given something away. This complicates things considerably." Phil had also once described the breaking of his nose just before prom as "a bit unfortunate," so his capacity for understatement was clearly still going strong. "I'm going to give you my phone. When someone answers, you're going to introduce yourself. Then get yourself someplace inconspicuous as fast as possible. Deanne, Dave and Jake over there by choice." He cocked his head at a trio of classmates who'd been casual friends during their high school days. They were passing baby pictures around. Marty winced.

"Stay with the herd; keep my head down. I get it. After I introduce myself, what do I say?" Phil shrugged.

"That part's not important." He handed off the phone. "Just stay safe."

"Yeah, yeah, you too, you bastard," Marty grumbled. Phil wouldn't be able to hear it; he was already halfway to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time:  
> Wireless on tap! Also action! Suspense! Natasha!:
> 
> In the Parking Lot  
> disappearances- confrontations- monologuing- ambush- pickups 
> 
> The Pick-Up Truck  
> Impractical shoes and large handbags- Pamela's choice


	16. Under the Mighty Hawk/ the Pick-Up Truck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the Mighty Hawk  
> disappearances- confrontations- monologuing- ambush- pickups
> 
> The Pick-Up Truck  
> cleaning up-Impractical shoes and large handbags- Pamela's choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back in the land of wireless! Unfortunately, no internet means no research, so I really hope nothing I've just posted is going to come back to bite me. Anything that does is not my beta's fault; she did as great as job as always, and I've changed more than usual on her. Sorry, babe.
> 
> Thank you all for being patient with my technological woes. You guys have been amazing, and the comments are just killing me. 
> 
> We've got a lot of action (and a little monologuing) to get through, so let's get going!
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**In the Parking Lot**

By the time Reuben and Leo reached the table Stu and Heather White-Watson had been sitting at, both of them were gone. Reuben hadn't even seen them go. Leo turned to him, eyes worried and moustache twitching.

"I'm gonna head into the building and try to find Stu. Go get Phil, tell him what happened." Reuben watched Leo carefully for a moment, his hangdog face scrunching, before responding.

"Yeah, sure, if you need me to. But why, again? What's going on?" Leo shrugged at him. He was already half-distracted, eyes sweeping the room in restless arcs.

"It'd take too long to explain, and anyway just at the moment I'm not entirely sure, myself. But whatever it _is_ , we do whatever Phil tells us, okay? Just like back at comics club."

"I was too young for comics club. What about it?"

"It didn't exist."

"Yeah it did, Phil wrote up newsletters and you guys had obscure t-shirts and bylaws and everything. He got some kind of merit badge for it."

"Didn't. Your brother made it up to cover up the fact we'd all go down to the creek and have bonfires and shit. I mean, we talked comics, yeah, I guess, because we did that all the time. But that wasn't really the point." 

"So we're going to go have bonfires and shit?" Reuben’s tone was turning truculent, and Leo growled at him, bouncing on his heels in his eagerness to be gone.

"No, we're going to do _whatever Phil tells us to_ , and it'll all turn out okay. Jeez, Reuben. Look, just do this for Todd, if you won’t for me or your brother. Get _going_. Before it's too late. Look--" Leo nodded back towards the buffet table. Marty was just looking up over his shoulder at Erwin White, who'd come up behind him, snatched Phil’s phone from his hand, and flung it under the bleachers.

"Shouldn’t we help him?" Reuben asked, but Leo was already on the fly, off to find Stu. Marty caught Reuben staring and glared back at him, nodding at the door. Reuben ran.  
__

The sun had half disappeared beyond the horizon by the time Phil emerged into the parking lot outside the gymnasium. He paused for a moment, in the shadow cast by a large fiberglass statue of the Washauwauk Mighty Hawk, to let his eyes adjust in relative safety. There was no one in sight in the lot, not even the usual cluster of smokers next to an entrance. In the emptiness, he could hear the frogs in the gully at the edge of the lot creaking out mating calls.

Phil looked out to the other side of town, to the hill that commanded the eastern edge, already entirely shadowed. The water tower still stood glowering in the dusk at the top of the bluff. Its witch hat roof, product of some Victorian engineer's obsession with Bavarian castles, looked less absurd after dark, less out of place among the thoroughly midwestern stands of oak and sumac and the dark shapes of fields.

Off to the left, in the last field before woodland took over, green lights as miniscule as fireflies still flickered. Phil turned back to the entrance to the high school, impatient.

About his third turn across the entrance, he realized the frogs had stopped.

He slipped back into the shadows next to the Hawk, among the cigarette butts and discarded papers, and drew his gun. Out along the main road, a car passed. The headlights illuminated the rows of cars for a moment. As the sounds of the engine died down, he heard a crunch of gravel, quickly silenced.

Behind him, the heavy steel outer door creaked on its hinges and began to swing open. The light from the interior revealed the planes of his face and chest and backlit the person inside. Phil was flying through the air, tackling Reuben and bringing him down, before he could even open his mouth in greeting. As they tumbled, a bullet smacked the wall behind them.

"What the hell!" Reuben gasped, struggling to rise to his feet. His brother pushed him behind the old Cadillac parked in the handicapped parking space. Another bullet spat up earth at his feet. Phil rolled behind the car himself, just in time to see the substantial form of Mayor Mary White disappear behind the Hawk. He’d lost his gun during the tackle; it had skittered to a rest just beyond his reach under the wide body of the car.

"Damnit, Phil Coulson, why can't you ever make things easy?" Mayor White grouched. Her voice echoed off the wall.

"Make what easy?" he asked.

"Killing you, for starters.”

"Why am I worth that kind of effort, Mary?" He made an experimental grab at the handle of the gun, anyway, found his arm a half inch too short.

"Don't be a goddamn know it all, Phil, it was never attractive,” the Mayor told him. “D'you think I didn't notice your girl asking me questions or your boy chatting Dean up? D'you think I don't know everything that goes on in this town, as soon as it goes on? Dean told us everything, you know. In the end. What the hell you wanted to get involved for I don't know, but you've made things messy. I'm going to make them neat again. You and Reuben never did fit in, never did care about the greater good, about Washauwauk. I was glad when you left. Too damn bad you had to come back and rile them all up. Leo I'll take care of later for his betrayal. We've already got people coming after Marty and Stu and dear Pamela.”

As she'd been talking, she'd been creeping forward along the wall. Phil had kept its solid metal body between them, pushing Reuben in front of him as they rounded the Cadillac in a low crouch. At the far end of the parking lot, a patrol car burst into life and took off, the engine growling as it passed behind them. Phil watched it a moment and saw Stu Tyler’s moon face plastered against one of the windows in the backseat. He sighed, then kicked Reuben, who yelped out:

"I don't get it, Mary, what's messy? What 'greater good'? What have you been doing?" Even over the distance, in the dark, the disgust in Mary White's voice was nearly visible.

"Do you think you're going to get me monologuing like some kind of two-bit Scooby Do villian, Reuben Steinitz? Ask your brother, if you have time before I-- _oof_!" Phil hit her low, his head in her solar plexus, tossing her backwards onto the gravel. His hand came up to her wrist and he twisted viciously. Her gun popped free. Phil was not a small man and he was all muscle, but the Honorable Mayor of Washauwaulk was built on approximately the same lines as a hockey enforcer and apparently just as mean. She was able to throw him off with a frantic buck of her hips and stutter to her feet. She couldn’t throw him far enough, however, and when he came up, he came up with her gun in his hand. He backed away far enough to prevent her rushing him, and levelled it at her.

"Reuben," he said, like he was asking his brother to run to the store for him, "can you please come and cover the Mayor for me? And hand me your keys, please? I have to follow that-- _Shit_!" Phil dove to his left just in time to avoid the shiny red pick-up truck, lights off, that was barrelling out of the parking lot between them. When he came back up, Mary White was gone and Reuben was staring at him, blank-faced.

Phil wasn't paying a lot of attention at just that moment. He was staring after the pick-up where, the second before diving out of the way, he'd seen Natasha and Pamela's pale faces beaming out through the truck's windshield.

**The Pick-Up Truck**

When Natasha had left the Coulson-Steinitz house to go in search of Dean White, she had done so with all the speed she would have used fleeing a building that was rigged to explode. Whatever Clint and Deborah had been getting up to, she didn't fully trust that she wouldn't turn around and find a mushroom cloud where the house had been.

It wasn't until she was in her car, out of town, and halfway up the long dirt road that led to Dean White's farm that she realized that she should probably let Coulson know what she was doing. She stopped just outside the gate to the property to shoot off a quick text. 

The then she drove the rest of the way into the farmyard, and realized she wasn’t going to have to bother with little things like discreet inquiries or lockpicks.

The door to Dean White’s weatherbeaten, peeling old farmhouse was not only wide open, it was mostly off the hinges. Natasha drew the Glock holstered at the small of her back and went to search the house for any signs of its owner.

She only had to go as far as the kitchen, where very little was left upright, intact, or functional. That included Dean White.

Stepping over the remains of several stoneware crocks that had held sauerkraut and pickled beets, and the pungent puddles they’d created on the floor, she went to his side. There wasn't a chance in hell of reviving him, but he was cold enough that she clearly couldn't have prevented anything by coming earlier.

"Well, you're not going to be any help," she grumbled to the corpse. "And I don't suppose you've left any instructions for your rig, either? Of course not." She did close his eyes before she left, if only because of the flies.

Natasha took her time going over his effects and the outbuildings, searching for anything that would help her figure out how to handle the trailer. Finding nothing useful or convenient (and wasn’t it too bad the damn thing hadn’t even got an Ikea instruction sheet) she took a trip down to the trailer itself to see if Clint had left anything out of his description. He hadn't; the only way the trailer, glowing a sickly green in the evening sun, was going anywhere was hooked to a large vehicle. Even then, the portable generator was grumbling in a distinctly unhealthy fashion, and she was fairly sure it had taken some kind of beating either the night before or that morning.

Back up at the farmyard, the barns had been hastily cleared of several pieces of large equipment. They’d left tracks, dust-free spots, large pools of oily water, and dangling electrical cords. The Whites were clearing away the evidence, which meant the Whites knew that someone was going to come looking very soon. Problem was, they hadn't bothered to make Dean’s death look anything like an accident or a suicide. Either they had a frame-up planned, or they'd decided that they weren’t going to be leaving potential witnesses alive.

And Coulson was right in the middle of a huge White family gathering cunningly disguised as a high school reunion, along with the only other person who knew how to handle the jury-rigged gamma rig safely. Clint, meanwhile, was headed straight for the carp holding tank, the spot the Whites had to be thinking about securing next, and he was trailing a set of middle-aged radicals who wanted to blow it up. She longed for their comms devices, and maybe a couple more guns. And possibly her widow’s bite.  
__

All the alumni had been directed to enter the reunion through the exterior door that led directly from the parking lot to the gymnasium, so Natasha entered through the loading dock around the other side of the building instead. She was surprised to see a couple of attendees come down the hall towards the door she’d just entered, though not so surprised that she didn't have time to hide herself in a janitor's closet as they passed. She had to duck exiting groups several more times on her way to the gym. They were all locals, by dress, but a mixed bag of genders and ages. It wasn’t inconceivable that they’d all gotten tired of the reunion and were headed out for a private party, but if so they were heading in the opposite direction from their cars.

Natasha was nearly to the interior double doors to the gym when they burst open, and Pamela Brown came tumbling through in haste.

She was staring over her shoulder and stumbled into Natasha, who caught her and set her upright on her feet. Pamela fought her for a moment, shaky-legged in her party heels, then seemed to register Natasha as a friend. She backed away and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

"Oh thank god it's you,” she gasped.

"Mmm." said Natasha.

"She took Stu!” Pamela pointed back towards the gym. “I turned away for half a minute, and when I turned back, I saw her dragging him out through the locker room! Then Duane and Eddie White--!" Came through the door, apparently, given the way Pamela cut off in a shriek as the two men advanced on her.

Natasha pushed her aside and strode straight up to Duane White as he hesitated. Broad-shouldered and heavy-jowled like most of the Whites, he seemed disconcerted at being faced with a small woman armed with only her knuckles and a faint smile. He went down gratifyingly quickly, curled up around his midsection. She choked him out and turned to deal with Eddie.

Pamela was already dealing with him; he was reeling backwards from a solid thwack she'd given him with her oversized purse. From the sound if it, she was probably smuggling a small anvil. Natasha confined herself to delivering a knockout when he tried to get back up; Pamela and her twenty-pound purse had done the hard work.

"I have to find Stu!" Pamela cried.

"Me, too." Natasha said as she pulled Pamela along by the elbow.  
__

Find Stu they did, staring out from the back of a beat-up patrol car. There was a dirty-blonde woman in a police uniform at the wheel, whom Pamela identified as Heather. The car was already headed out of the parking lot, leaving from the exit furthest from the gym itself. It turned right on the county road, then right again and sped back past the lot, Stu’s face and hands pressed against the window. Pamela gave a little sob and ran after. Natasha was right behind her.

When she caught up, Pamela was tugging open the door of a large, extended-cab pick-up truck. Even in the low light it was clearly cherry red, polished, and much-loved. Pamela scrambled into the cab. Natasha vaulted up and over the hood, then swung up into the passenger side. Pamela's hands were shaking as she dug into her purse for the keys.

"They're getting away," she moaned. Natasha put a hand on top of hers, as gently as she could.

"They've gotten away," she said. "But they'll keep him safe right now, they'll need him to help them remove the trailer rig, since they've killed Dean." That didn’t seem to help Pamela’s composure, somehow.

"We need to get there before they can hide it; we need to get it to safety ourselves. We can’t let them take it somewhere we can’t find it-- it’s dangerous. Pamela, did Stu tell you anything, anything at all about how that rig was set up?" She was holding both Pamela's hands now, squeezing them and keeping her voice as level as possible.

"He told Phil. Tonight. He told Phil how to do it-- we could get Phil!"

"How do you know he told Coulson?"

"I was there!"

"Then he told you, too. Come on, I need you, and I need this truck. You and I can either chase your husband, not find him and maybe get him killed, or you can go with me to Dean White's farm. We can get the evidence to safety before they can take it from us, so that they have no reason to kill your husband. Your choice, Pamela."

Pamela stilled under her hands and took two shaky breaths, then turned her powder blue eyes, overflowing with tears, up to Natasha.

"Not much of a choice, is it?"

Which was how they came to nearly run over Phil Coulson as they barrelled out of the parking lot, out of town, then headed straight up the hill-- not bothering with the track Stu and Dean had cut in earlier days-- towards the green glowing lights.  
__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Mayor White were actually a two-bit Scooby Do villain, she'd take off the mask at the end to reveal that she'd been Deborah Steinitz all along. This, I promise you, is not what will happen.
> 
> Next time:
> 
> Into the Woods  
> stalking the Boys- really bad timing all around- unexpected guests
> 
> At the Array  
> complications- improvisations- unexpected guests
> 
> Camp Songs and Little Vans  
> camp songs- World's Greatest Complete Jackass- a phone call- the cavalry


	17. Into the Woods/ At the Array/ Camp Songs and Little Vans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the Woods  
> stalking the Boys- really bad timing all around- unexpected guests
> 
> At the Array  
> complications- improvisations- unexpected guests
> 
> Camp Songs and Little Vans  
> camp songs- World's Greatest Complete Jackass- a phone call- the cavalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the fabulous beta, whose Momma nearly always, in fact, wears socks.
> 
> To all of you readers? Thank you so much for sticking with this story this long, and for all the comments. I really do squee each time I see the notification. 
> 
> Today's random research note: the question of whether or not portable generators need grounding rods is unexpectedly fraught in electrician circles, apparently. This story is teaching me the weirdest things.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Into the Woods**

Clint pulled the two men into the woods and left them lying tangled together between the roots of a large oak tree. They'd wake up again soon and little worse for wear, worse luck. A quick examination of the larger, hairier one’s wallet pronounced him Ricky White. The little one in a Phish tour t-shirt, the one he’d used the last of his tranq arrows on, turned out to be Jordan. He stripped Ricky of his suspenders for use as makeshift wrist restraints, and moved along. 

All Clint knew, apart from their names and jeans-wrangling preferences, was that they'd been stalking the Close Enough to Fernton Boys before he’d taken them out. That was all he had to know, to realize that he wasn't just going to be able to waltz up to the water tower, read the Boys the riot act, confiscate their dynamite and head home.

Not that things had ever been going to work out so easily in the first place. The only person he'd ever seen pull something like that off was currently down in town attending his high school reunion along with Clint's best friend and a whole busload of potential enemies.

Someone among the Whites was clearly suspicious of Gary and his crew. Clint was going to have to protect them from the Whites, as well as protecting the water tower from _them_. Clint slipped back onto the trail that led, in a kind of rough wide arc, through the stands of oak and brush and up the hill to the water tower. The Boys had passed this way with more than one heavy load. They weren't bothering to hide their tracks, not that they'd have known how to do so well enough to fool him, anyway. It didn’t matter much; thanks to the delaying effects of the Whites he was far further behind than he wanted to be.

Finally, after what seemed like eons of half climbing-half running over fallen limbs and washed-out spaces where heavy rains had eroded the slope, getting smacked by branches every other step, Clint reached the edge of a small clearing. During the journey he'd dispatched a further two-patrol of Whites, this one a younger man and a middle-aged woman. Possibly even a mother-son duo, taking family bonding just a bit too far.

The water tower loomed above him in the growing dusk. It was old enough that its gray stones were pitted and moss-covered on the north face. Generations had scratched and sprayed graffiti up its sides. Everything from _Leticia, none finer_ to _Kilroy was here_ (and associated doodle) _Megadeth 666_ (with the eternal upside down pentagram), _LB+TR_ (in a heart, naturally) and _Fall Out Boy sucks_ were represented, reaching about as high as an average teen could reach. About three quarters of the way up, a stone balcony wrapped the edges, cantilevered out about three feet. Its pillars held up the confectionary roof. Under the eaves Clint could see the rusted sides of a huge metal holding tank-- weathered enough that there was a disturbing chance it was original to the tower. A shadow moved along the cylinder: someone stalking back and forth on the balcony.

Clint circled the tower, keeping to the woods, as he looked for an open door. The Close Enough to Fernton Boys were not in sight, which hopefully meant they were still rigging the tower. He rounded a last corner, where an opening in the woods gave a view down the long slope all the way to the woods fringing the river. There was the door to the tower, an iron grate that was currently hanging open. Someone was coming out of it, back first.

"Hi," Clint said, covering him, "fancy meeting you here." Tilt Watson jumped and spun around, dropping the box he’d been carrying. Clint nearly dropped his bow, caught between leaping forward in a futile effort to catch the box or back in an equally futile effort to get to cover in case it exploded.

When all it did was fall over and make little clattering sounds, he glared up at Tilt and re-adjusted the bow.

"What, um, what?" Tilt asked, eloquently. He accordioned his tall form into a squat in order to seal the box up more closely.

"So, have you finished rigging the tower yet, or just started?" Clint asked, beginning to saunter forward.

"I, um, what? Rigged? We're just--"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, I have no time for playing dumb, got it? You've got dynamite, you've got Marty LaBlanc's souvenir detonation cord, and you're planning on blowing this water tower to kingdom come in the hopes that you can take out Mayor White's alien carp tank in some sort of misguided community service thing, have I missed anything?"

Tilt shook his head, box forgotten at his feet. He was staring at the tip of Clint’s arrow so hard he was starting to go cross-eyed.

"Good. So. Have you already rigged the tower or not?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Good. Wait-- _fuck_ \-- bad. All right, how do I stop it?"

"I don’t think you can." Tilt drew himself up and puffed out his skinny chest. "We rigged it on a timer-- a clock radio. Unless you know how the circuit was set up, you’re as likely to blow it up as stop it. I don’t even know how it works; Deloris does. And you won’t find her or Mikey in time." Clint stared at him.

"What do you mean I won’t find her? You've already evacuated?"

"Yeah, I’m the last one here, we’re all gone. What, do we look like idiots?"

"If that’s true, who the hell is up on the balcony right now?"

"That'd be me, Clint!" Gary Coulson called from above him. Clint tilted his head all the way back to see Phil's father leaning over the railing, making a shooing motion with one hand. Neither of them bothered to react when Tilt took the opportunity to decamp for the woods.

"What the hell are you still doing up there, Mr. Coulson?"

"It's Gary, Clint."

"Fine. What the fuck are you still doing up there, Gary? According to Tilt, this place is gonna blow any minute."

"I know that, I know that." Gary had left the railing, and his voice was muffled and distracted somewhere around the curve of the tower. "Actually got about five minutes. And... um..."

"Um?" Clint prompted him, rounding the tower to try and keep him in line of sight. "Um is not good in this situation, Gary. Um is, in fact, very bad. What's um?"

"Um... it appears that the trap door is jammed. I can't get back down." He said it with the air of someone confessing to a personal embarrassment, like he'd locked himself out of his house wearing just his bathrobe.

"Of course it is," Clint drawled. "Okay, not a problem, I'm coming to get you."

"There's another thing." There was actual fear in his voice, all of a sudden.

"What other thing?" Gary was not watching him, or trying the trapdoor, he was staring out down the hill into the dusk. Clint flipped rapidly through his arrows, feeling for the correct one.

"Well, look like there's about to be a party on this hill, and the first guests are nearly here."

**At the Array**

Natasha braced herself against the dashboard with one hand and knee. Much of the rest of her body hung out the open passenger window, the door winding her slightly each time Pamela hit a bump. Heading uphill overland, even over fallow fields, it was mostly bumps.

"Do you see anything?" Pamela called over her shoulder. She was clutching the wheel and wrenching it from side to side like it was the last limited edition Furby on the shelves on Black Friday. Whether by instinct or some half-remembered factoid out of a tv show, she'd figured out the whole zig-zag pattern part of evasive maneuvers.

The maneuvers were necessary; there was another pick-up following them. At least two people in it had shotguns and were taking turns firing and loading. Given all that, Natasha ignored Pamela's question in favor of aiming and firing at the left front wheel just as the truck jounced off the ground over a particularly steep bounce. Natasha was no Clint, but she could still hit a wheel on a dark night at 50 yards while dangling out of a moving vehicle. 

The truck came down on the wheel rim still able to travel, just long enough to hit the next bump completely wrong,veer off and flop over on its side. Eventually it would probably decant a number of Whites with guns, but by then she and Pamela would be at the gamma array, as Natasha had begun referring to it.

The array was still Whiteless when they arrived. Natasha leapt out even before Pamela had come to a halt, already stalking around the perimeter while the pick-up truck got backed up into place to be loaded. Lights were already headed in their direction from the farm and from the dirt track that led up the hill and past the water tower.

"Company very soon," she told Pamela as the woman joined her. "Please give me good news." Pamela shook her head, and Natasha flinched when she saw tears in the woman’s eyes yet again.

"I really wish I could--” her voice broke, and she stopped. Natasha watched while she closed her eyes and took several deep, shuddering breaths. Finally, she nodded to herself, stood up, and looked Natasha in the eye. “The rig's about what Stu told me it would be; it just takes strength to move. The generator's more of a problem. It's leaking gasoline and it’s running hot. We have to get it disconnected and leave it here; we can't risk it exploding if we make a wrong move."

"We also can't risk it getting hit by bullets. What's hard about removing it?"

"Some of the extension cords are frayed, there’s no grounding wire and I think there should be, and I can’t get the power switch or the circuit breaker to move-- I don’t know if they’re jammed or corroded. I can get Stu's tools, but mostly it’s a matter of really delicate work and I’ve mostly ever watched Stu. It's going to take a little while and a little help."

"We have neither," Natasha replied. "Do your best with what you have; I'll join you when I'm done here."

"Done with what?"

In answer, Natasha leapt off the artificial ridge she'd been standing on, and her boot connected with the chin of a short, scruffy little man who'd been creeping along the bottom of it. He went down in a glorious arc, and she retrieved his handgun, which she promptly used on the kneecap of the man coming up behind him.

"Is half the town in on this or what?" she asked Pamela as she joined her at the generator, shining a pocket-sized Maglite down at the problematic connections.

"You’re really not going to want sparks around here right now,” Pamela said, eyeing the gun with distaste, then testing and then discarding a couple of pliers from her husband's tool box before hitting on the right implement. She began to twist a wire to the copper rod shoved into the ground a foot away from the generator. "Depends on what you mean by 'in on it.’ Only a dozen, according to Stu, are really involved in what's going on, and the inner circle is even smaller. But family connections being what they are, double that number probably know something about it, and a lot of the rest'll help in the cause of family loyalty. So, yes, if 'it' is 'people who might be attacking us tonight,' half the adult population of the town is a fair estimate."

"Ah. Just like that time outside Quito, then. Fair enough," Natasha looked around her. "I don't suppose we can count on any any sort of help?" As she stepped towards the rig, she heard a squelch. The flashlight illuminated a sleek trickle on the grass. It ran from the generator down to the algae pond. By a combination of patience and carefully-timed brute force, she and Pamela had managed to disconnect the last of the extension cords from the generator, and the array went dark. In the moonlight, it took on the look of bleached whale ribs. As the two watched, a shadow moved in the wake of one of the ribs. Natasha levelled one of her guns at it.

"Can I help?" Elliot Steinitz asked, slinking forward, his hands raised over his head. He was wearing an anorak over his pajamas. Pamela looked up and dropped her pliers.

"No!" she said, just as Natasha said

"Yes." Pamela glared at her.

"He's just a _boy_. There were-- there will be-- people shooting at us! Elliot Steinitz, you go back to your grandmother this very moment." He looked behind him, as if he expected to see her looming there, then back at Pamela and shook his head.

"We're practically surrounded already, Pamela. He'd never get away safely. That rig is large, we are nearly out of time, and I am about to be too busy protecting us to help you. Use the child, keep him safe." Natasha rounded on Elliot. "Your grandmother is going to kill us if she finds out."

"Too late," Deborah Steinitz called, and she came over the ridge closer to the farm. She was wearing a large sweater over her dress for the day, her arms were wrapped around herself inside it, and she looked very small and very tired and about ten years older than she had that morning. "He already told me what happened last night." Elliot turned pleading eyes on Natasha. "Apparently, he felt he couldn't let either you or Clint remain under suspicion due to his actions. When he told me about this, this _thing_ , I made him take me here. I had to see for myself what you two had gotten him into." She looked around her and closed her eyes for a moment. "That may have been a bit of a mistake."

Natasha wasn't listening anymore. The first of the headlights from the trail had reached them, in the form of a Range Rover, and figures were pouring out of it. Figures that were starting to aim rifles. She ran to meet them.

**Camp Songs and Little Vans**

"Yo' mama don't wear no socks!"

"A ding-dong!"

"I saw when she took 'em off!"

"A ding dong!"

"She threw them in the sky!"

"A ding-dong?"

"Superman refused to fly!"

"Oh my god, shut up!" Agent Jasper Sitwell, senior agent out of the New York headquarters of SHIELD, agent in charge of advanced survival training for promising probationary agents, friend to badasses and badass himself, would have been pulling out his hair if he’d had any left. He had been trapped in a helicopter for the last half hour with said promising probationary agents, listening to them engage in team bonding rituals by singing every single goddamn camp song Agent Barton had encouraged them to swap over the last two weeks. Off key, and out of tune. He was seriously re-considering having postponed his departure for New York in favor of some last-minute air assault training.

They shut up, and turned limpid, puppy-dog eyes on him in near perfect unison. Barton must have been behind that, as well.

"I swear on my Mama's grave," he growled at them, "you sing one more goddamn verse of anything and I will push you out of this helicopter right now."

"I thought you were doing that in fifteen minutes anyway, sir?" one of the voices piped up. Rollette. He was nearly sure it was Agent Joe-about-to-be-shitcanned-Rollette. It was true, worse luck. They were indeed headed out for a practice night drop. Sitwell opened his mouth, not yet having worked out his reply further than "If you fucking think" when his phone rang. The caller ID showed Coulson's number, and he whipped it up to his ear.

"If there is anything further you want from Clint Fucking Barton, World's Greatest Complete Jackass, before I break his goddamn neck, you better get it now, because hand to God, Coulson--"

"I'm not Coulson," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Explain," Sitwell managed after a moment of complete silence.

"We're about to be in trouble here. He had to go; left me behind to cover his retreat. He gave me the phone, already dialed, and said to introduce myself to whoever answered."

"So introduce yourself already," Sitwell told the voice.

"Um, Marty. Martin LaBlanc."

"Aw shit." Sitwell looked up, pointed at his laptop, pointed at the nearest probie-- Agent Reade-- and pointed at the seat next to him. Reade pulled the laptop open and flopped into the seat next to him. Sitwell looked over and punched up a tracker program, then entered a complex set of codes.

"Um, do you need anything else from me?" the voice continued, sounding confused.

"One sec. Okay, I've got him. We're on our way. What are we looking at, here? Where are Romanov and Barton, and do I just bring the black helicopters, or all the little vans, too?" But the line had gone dead. He turned to Nguyen, gesturing her to head up to the pilot. "Get ready, kids, we've got a change of plans," he told his agents. "And call in the little vans, too. If you've never been part of a real Agent Coulson bugfuck special, hold on to your panties. This is gonna be fun."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You knew they’d be back. 
> 
> Next Time, we find out what Phil’s been up to:
> 
> On the Water Tower  
> on the edge- evening the odds- not Alan Alda- on the line
> 
> On the Hill  
> up the hill- hostages- loading up- general melee- deluge


	18. On the Water Tower/ On the Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Water Tower  
> on the edge- evening the odds- not Alan Alda- on the line
> 
> On the Hill  
> up the hill- hostages- loading up- general melee- deluge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, we're nearly at the end. As in, we've got Chapter 19 on Thursday, then Chapter 20 a week from now is the epilogue. How did that happen? 
> 
> Guys, I know I just said it, but your comments are slaying me. I appreciate them so much.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**On the Water Tower**

"All right, show me where," Clint said in Gary's ear, and had the satisfaction of sending the other man about a foot and a half into the air.

"How did you--" Gary said, when he'd regained his breath. Clint spared him a quick smirk, really just a twitch of his lips, as he stalked past.

"Grappling arrow. Really handy. Ah. Yes. I see your problem. That field is infested with Whites. Good thing you called me in." Out down the hill, a near traffic jam was occurring on the trail up towards the water tower. An SUV and two trucks were stuck behind a police patrol car that never should have attempted to take lead. People were pouring out in every direction. Besides those headed for the hill-- several with hunting rifles in tow-- three figures were converging on the bottom of the water tower. At least one of them looked, in the gloom, like he might be the unfortunate Ricky White, now suspenderless.

Clint dispatched all three with arrows through the knee before turning back to the scene further down the hill. He stood perfectly still, gaze focused downslope,all of his body's energy directed and transferred to his grip on bow and arrow. Gary stared at him, as nonplussed as he'd been when Clint had suggested _My Son John_ the night previous. As he watched, Clint came to life and picked off two of the figures with rifles.

"What are you doing?" Gary yelled, pulling on his arm. "Those are my neighbors!" Clint spun and threw his hand off.

"Some neighbors! Anyway, you don't get to talk; what do you think will happen if this tower blows? That’d cause a lot more damage than an arrow through the kneecap. Now, unless you want both your sons dead, let me get back to work."

"Both my sons?" Gary asked him.

"Take a close look at the SUV, that was Phil and Reuben getting out of it. I'd prefer their odds if I can just--" he could. He finally had a line on the rifle-dude who was currently peppering the SUV. He took his shot. The distance was too great to be sure it was actually the shoulder-shot he'd hoped for, but it didn't much matter. 

Gary stared over the rail, struggling to see his sons clearly in the gloom and the puddles of brightness from several sets of headlights.The figure that was probably Phil was moving like something out of a movie or a nightmare, dropping people left and right. 

“He’s... is he killing them?” 

“Naw, it’d be going a lot faster if he were.” Clint looked up to find Gary staring down at his son, his face gone pale and slack. “Look,” he put a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “He knows those guys, he’ll be as gentle as he can. We don’t kill when we don’t have to.”

“How often do you have to?” Gary asked. Clint didn’t respond. Gary didn’t spend any time calling him on it; he was still watching Phil work his way through Whites with the efficiency of a fox in the henhouse. The figure that was probably Reuben had joined in with enthusiasm and some kind of blunt object, though much less skill. 

More vehicles were arriving on the hill as he watched. It was becoming impossible to pick specific figures out of the general melee. If any of them had been able to pull away from the mass, they were close enough to make an easy run at the tower, but no one seemed inclined to do so.

"How do you--" he turned. Clint was pacing away from him on the balcony to get a better angle on a woman who had made it nearly at the entrance to the tower. He turned back to Gary and raised his eyebrows, even as he leaned over and shot the woman in her shoulder. She clutched at it and staggered away into the woods.

"Is that what you call providing security?" Gary asked, open-mouthed. Clint shook his head.

" _You_ said security, not me," he told Gary. "That's just the ‘other duties as assigned’ part of my job description." He took a last quick sweep around the hill, then let his gaze rest back on the man. Phil's father. "Hi," he shrugged, and dropped his bowstring to hold out his hand. "I'm Hawkeye. I shoot things. Good to meet you." Gary looked at him skeptically.

"You look nothing like Alan Alda."

"You know, I get that a lot. I'm glad we had this chat, but this tower's gonna blow unless I stop it, and Phil will be pissed off if that happens. So you head down the grappling line," he pulled it up and tried to hand it to Gary, who simply stared, "while I try to fix your mess." When Gary continued to stare, he jingled the line like a dog’s leash.

"I, that's not going to work," Gary told him. He turned his hands palm upwards to reveal the raw welts and savage burns along them. "Half of that is from an accident with some of the blasting caps, half from trying to get the trapdoor open. But I don't think I can-- ack!" Before he had finished speaking, Clint had dropped the line. He slung his bow over one shoulder and yanked Gary in against the other.

"Hang onto my neck, then" he said. "tight. And maybe close your eyes." Clint grabbed the grappling line in his free hand and manhandled them both over the edge of the tower.  
__

When Clint let go of Gary at the bottom, he staggered into the tower wall and fell to his knees, one hand clutched to his chest. Clint gave him three seconds to catch his breath before pulling him to his feet.

"Do you know how to disarm that bomb? No? Then get out of here; Tilt said everyone else was gone." Gary nodded at him.

"When we finished, Tilt and I sent them off while we cleaned up. Keep ‘em safely out of the blast radius. They were going to Dean White's barns and then, if there was time, out to the algae ponds to try and sabotage that weird grow-light apparatus he has."

"You mean the ones that could give them radiation poisoning if they touched them? Along with the algae that can turn you into a rage monster if you ingest enough of it? Great plan! Hopefully Natasha's intercepted them. You better get out of here. Try to reach the crowd in time to warn them." He pushed Gary on his way.

"What are you gonna do?" Gary asked him, already turning to run. Clint waited until he was nearly to the half-ring of trees before he replied.

"I already told you: try to de-fuse the bomb." And he darted back inside the tower, slamming the metal grating behind him. Gary stared for a second, then said

"Phil. _Reuben_." and began to run. Behind him, Clint's voice echoed from the tower.

"Aw, wires, no."

**On the Hill**

Heather White-Watson's patrol car was old enough that it would have been put out to pasture years ago in any decently-funded self-respecting force. It should never have been taken up a hill on a dirt track, at speed at night. Especially not with Phil Coulson shooting at it from an SUV a half block back and rapidly gaining. 

The SUV caught up with the patrol car about three quarters of the way up the hill, when two blown tires fishtailed it across the track. "Caught up with" in this case meant "rammed into," and the car wedged further into the ditch next to the track, while Heather flung herself from behind the wheel and dragged Stu Tyler out of the back seat and up the hill. She took a moment to fire a few shots behind her before forcing him along. Phil gestured to his brother to stay in the car and get down, then leapt out and started around the patrol car after the two of them.

"Phil, _move_!" Reuben called from behind him, and suited his own actions to his words, rolling out of the SUV and onto the ground just as a pick-up truck slammed into the side of the SUV and three men scrambled out. Phil dodged the mass of moving vehicles, then doubled back and took out the biggest-- the driver-- first by slamming him face-first into the side of his truck even as he rounded the hood. The other two took a little longer, due to being armed with a tire-iron and an axe, respectively. Two more pick-ups had the time to add to the pile-up and disgorge their occupants. The ones on his side of the pile-up he took out with gunshots where he could hit a limb or shoulder, with his hands if he couldn't. Behind him, he was dimly aware that Reuben had wrested the tire iron from one of Phil's fallen opponents, and was using it to thwack another about the head and shoulders.

"Leave them alive," Phil called over his shoulder conversationally, "let's not make this messier than it has to be."

"I wasn't planning not to!" Reuben yelled back. He disengaged from his opponent, who was not going to be going anywhere for quite a while, and turned towards another, just as a spatter of automatic rifle fire peppered the side of the SUV. The brothers dove for the underside of the SUV as one. Three men with rifles-- no, two men with rifles-- no, one man with a rifle, and Phil thanked Clint under his breath, were hunched behind the patrol car and shooting at them.

"What the fuck, are those arrows?" Reuben gasped out. Phil confirmed it while looking him over. His brother was paper white and googly-eyed, but still clutching the tire iron. He nodded to himself and glanced behind them. No more Whites at the immediate moment. Finally, the last rifleman was down, and he peeked over the top of the SUV. A bullet nicked the hood next to him. As he popped up to reconnoiter, a large form ducked below the patrol car.

"Mary, is that you again?" he set his voice to carry. "This isn't going to work, you know. You can't hide this anymore, and you can't hide killing us. Just call everything off and let me bring you in. Don't get your family members killed."

Her answer was more bullets, followed by:

"I could say the same of you, Coulson. Look around you; there are two of you and dozens of us. It's not over at a-- oh no you don't!" He'd taken advantage of the time she was evidently buying to distract _him_ while she re-loaded, and had rounded SUV and patrol car and come up behind her. She turned at a distant noise, saw him, and scrambled back, finishing fitting the magazine into her gun as she did. He dove back behind the car.

"Phil," Reuben said behind him, "we have a problem."

"What now, Reuben?" Phil asked, in the same tone of voice he'd used when Reuben was still eating his own snot and breathing loudly at Phil in order to annoy him.

"Put the gun down, Coulson, or your crip friend gets it." Phil turned slowly, to see Erwin White standing outside his pick-up truck, with a gun pointed at Marty, who was perched, wheelchair and all, in the back. Even in the dark, he looked as insubstantial as a ghost.

"Go ahead," Phil said evenly, staring straight at Marty.  
__

When Natasha turned from dispatching the Whites on her own front, she found that Deborah, Pamela, and Elliot working together had managed to hitch the trailers to the back of the pick-up and Pamela was getting back into the cab. Natasha grabbed Elliot by the hand and flung him into the back of the extended cab, then turned to grab Deborah.

Deborah didn't come to her, she just stood looking at the unconscious men and women laid out all around the ridge, at the semi-automatics Natasha had confiscated, at Natasha's face.

"Oh." she said. "I see I failed to ask what kind of work you did with my son. How thoughtless of me." Her voice was as flat, as perfectly polite, as it had been since Natasha had left her house earlier in the day, and it was clear that she was hanging on by a very, very slender thread. Natasha put a hand on her shoulder.

"If it helps," she said gently, "we're not actually dating. That was just a cover for, well," she gestured to the trailer, then to the sweep of the hill in the distance where a pile-up of cars and gunfire was occurring, "this."

"This," Deborah echoed her, looking around at everything. "I see. Is this the kind of thing you do often?"

"No," Natasha admitted. "Usually we're not as generous as we're being tonight. Please get in, I'm about to have to shoot a few more people. Tell Pamela to start the car and be ready to move on my sign." She pushed Deborah into the car, then turned and laid down a suppressing fire across the algae pond, where a group of five people had just arrived from the direction of the farmhouse.

One of them shot right back. Natasha ducked next to the leaking generator and heaved until it rolled into the pond. She leapt into the back of the pick-up as it was rolling, pounding the back windshield as she did. As Pamela started to pull away, she pulled a lighter out of her pocket, flicked it to life, and flung it at the generator.  
__

"I'm not kidding, Coulson," Erwin snarled, moving close enough to press his gun to Marty's temple. "You put that _arg_!" Marty had tilted his head up and bit his captor’s hand, hard. As Erwin jerked back, Marty put a knife through his palm then a second in his armpit. Erwin crumpled to the ground.

"Little help here!" Marty called to Reuben and Phil. Reuben ran towards him, only to have Marty shoot someone over his shoulder.

"Can you get on the floor, Marty?" Phil called, while kicking another White in the crotch. Marty nodded. "Then stay there, cover us. Here." He tossed a confiscated rifle into the truck bed as Marty pulled himself off the wheelchair onto the floor. "And thanks. Reuben?" Reuben looked at his brother for a long moment.

"Yeah?"

"Take the other rifle. You and Marty keep anyone from coming up the hill. I'm going to go find the honorable Mayor." Phil put a fresh clip in one handgun, shoved it through his belt, and checked the magazine on a second. He'd been taking up a collection, evidently.

"Is that a smart idea, Phil?" his brother asked him. Phil Coulson let his face fade into a quirk of a smile for a fraction of a second.

"Of course not. Take care of each other." He ducked below the line of cars and started up the hill, where Mary White's form could be seen disappearing up the track towards the farm. Below them, another pick-up stopped short and disgorged more Whites. Reuben spun and readied his rifle.

One of the Whites went down to Marty's fire, another to a flailing fist. Mickey Brandt had appeared out of nowhere and was readying himself for another round when two more trucks pulled in.

"Where's the fight?" Leo Brown called, leaping out of one. His moustache was aquiver and he’d found a baseball bat somewhere. "I brought reinforcements!" Behind him, a half-dozen reunion-goers piled out as if they'd been in a clown car.

"That way!" Mikey called, pointing up the hill. Reuben spun, and Marty did as well as he was able. A new contingent of Whites was pouring down from the farm, and Mary was nearly to them. The only saving grace was that none of them seemed to be armed with guns. Which wasn't to say they weren't armed. Besides the many blunt objects Reuben couldn’t quite work out, he was sure he saw plumber’s wrenches, chains, pipes, boards and-- yes-- the long tines of at least two actual pitchforks. Leo Brown and his cadre started up the hill for them. Reuben found himself swept along, struggling to keep his eyes on the single upright form of his brother at the focus of the wave.

The fight moved slowly up the hill, illuminated in reds when a plume of flame and a small cloud erupted from a hidden ridge up and to the left. As the flame spread out, Reuben saw a pick-up truck, hauling something that looked like a skeletal whale behind it, heading overland and straight at the converging masses.

A pop, then a series of them, then a massive boom shook the night, as the water tower exploded. Its witch hat popped outwards and upwards as the tank shredded and the brick walls buckled. A hundred thousand gallons of water came rushing outwards and downwards, and on the crest of the tsunami rode a thousand silvery forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that's where I'm leaving that.
> 
> Chapter Summary:
> 
> Apres le Deluge Part I  
> wipe out- ride it out- fathers and sons- drop in visitors


	19. Après le Déluge: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Après le Déluge: Part I  
> wipe out- ride it out- fathers and sons- drop in visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is nearly it, guys. Just the epilogue to go from here. And you know what? You get TWO chapters tonight. Largely because I realized just as I was posting that I could and should split this into two chapters, but I'm not inclined to break the posting schedule. So, you know: bonus!
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Après le Déluge**

Phil heard the roar of water off the end of the blast, saw a water wall of fish, shrapnel, uprooted bushes, and Whites tearing down the hill at him. He ran ahead of it and threw himself on the top of the patrol car just as it slammed into the side. He clung to the lights atop the car as the wave burst over him, felt himself dragged to the far side. His shoulders strained with the effort of holding him on. Cold, vegetal-tasting water slammed into and over him, followed by slimy thwacks as fish bounced off.  
__

The wave hit Pamela's truck and the array broadside. Water rushed up and over the back of the truck, where Natasha braced herself between the sides. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and clung. In the cab, Deborah clutched Elliot to her tightly. Pamela's hands jerked off the wheel as the truck bucked and swayed. The trailer began to slide downhill. She kept her foot on the gas and wrenched the wheel, letting the whole damn thing turn into the current. The array jackknifed, pulled up on one end by the hitch and pushed down by the water. Natasha spluttered for breath as the pick-up drained and tightened her grip as dead fish, bellies burst by the force of the explosion, piled up on all sides of her. 

Behind them, the generator was still burning half-submerged in the algae pond, protected by those high ridges and the ditches along the trail that had acted as levees.  
__

Further down the hill, Reuben rode out the wave atop the high hood of Erwin's Super Duty pick-up, face plastered to the windshield, watching helplessly as the water bore over the sides, poured into the back, filled up around Marty. His dark head had disappeared. 

People tumbled past him in the flood, down the hill and out of sight in the dark. One tumbled close enough, arms flailing, that he could reach out and grab a wrist. He heaved upwards with one hand while his other was white-knuckled around the side-view mirror. It seemed an endless time before the water slowed, and he was able to finally pull the person up on the hood with him. 

That was the moment he realized he’d caught his father, glasses gone, long gray hair plastered about his face and neck. He looked up at Reuben with lost eyes, and breathed once, twice, before rolling over to heave his guts out.

__

Phil slithered off the top of the patrol car when the water coming down the hill slowed to a trickle. In the distance, he still heard it rushing, and took a moment to stare off downslope. Where people had washed up along the cars or in ditches, they were beginning to drag themselves up. Down at the bottom of the hill, he knew, there was a last rise and a thick stand of trees between the road and the creek, artificial levees built after the last floods at least a decade before he'd come to town. He hoped those had caught most of the people, possibly even most of the water, diverting it into gullies and ditches before depositing it in the creek.

Which was another problem for another day. At the moment, he stared around a field of mud, slimed with algae and spotted with stone, bits of twisted metal, and the burst-bellied bodies of thousands of silver carp, and more than a few sickly green ones.

There was a large form lying crumpled in the drainage ditch that lined the side of the road and now ran heavy and white-capped. Phil stumbled to it, heaved it over, and saw Mary White's plain wide face, pale and bloated. He didn't even have the energy to curse as he tipped her head back to clear her airway and began to pump the water from her.

People appeared at the top of the hill; more Whites, no doubt, those that had been above the flood, any that had come from the farm. He shook his head and ignored them.

The roaring in his ears was dying into a background buzz. He felt Mary White come to life beneath him, begin to hack, and he rolled her over and left.  
__

'Dad?" Reuben croaked, after his father was no longer spouting water. "You okay? Dad?" He'd already checked on Marty, wrenching open the truck's tailgate to release the pool that had built up. Marty had tumbled out with the water. He was coughing weakly but still, miraculously, alive. Reuben had put him back up on the tailgate; it was all he could do.

His father looked up at him myopically now and raised a weak hand to pat his cheek.

"Good work," he rasped. "Where's Phil?" Reuben looked around, found him staggering towards them, already only a few yards away. Phil was drenched, exhausted, his suit was plastered to him like cling-wrap, yet even as Reuben watched he was rebuilding that pleasantly unruffled demeanor he'd worn through half the night's events. He did it one shoulder-twitch at a time, one tug of sodden cuffs, one quick swipe down his ruined tie. He was nearly back to himself by the time he reached his family, and Reuben's eyes narrowed.

"Dad, Reuben," Phil greeted them both. Reuben grabbed him and hugged, held on as tight as he could before shoving him at his father. The two of them were so startled to be in an embrace that they seemed to forget how to get out of it for a moment, collapsed helplessly on each other.

"Glad you made it," Gary told his son, voice raw. Phil was still in his arms for a moment, then yanked himself free and straightened his jacket with quick jerks.

"That's it?" he said.

"What's it?"

"That's all? No 'sorry I nearly drowned half the town'?"

Gary blinked once, mouth gaping, then put his hands on his hips.

"Half the town shouldn't have been here! Everyone should have been safe at the reunion! At the worst, all that should have happened was an exploded tower, a ton of dead carp, and a wash-out down the road. _I'm_ not the one who brought half the town here!" Reuben stared at his father, then back at Phil.

"Wait... Dad blew up the tower?" he said, in a tiny voice.

"What if all the fish aren't dead, Dad? What about the fish food? That algae muck they're being fed is what's causing the mutations. What if that gets into the creek? Into the watershed. Oh, God," Phil ran a hand absently through his soggy hair, "the paperwork on this is going to be a bitch." 

He looked around. "Where's Clint?" he asked after a moment. Gary's face dropped, then shuttered.

"He was still up at the tower when I left, trying to stop the bomb," he said. His face was ashen. When Reuben looked back at Phil, all the control he’d tried to rebuild as he came to them was gone. For the first time in decades, he could read every emotion that crossed his brother's face. It wasn't a pleasant sight.

"You left him there?" Phil asked, his voice dangerously thin. Gary backed off, hands raised. Reuben winced at how mangled they were.

"Not my choice! I was stuck, he got me down from the balcony and told me to go. Then he ran back inside and slammed the door on me."

"He saved your life, and you left him there." Phil was growling now. "What were you thinking? What on earth could you have possibly fucking been thinking? Damnit, Dad, this isn’t a damn game. This is _my_ kind of work, why the hell didn't you leave it to me? Now Clint may be dead and you could have been killed and just _look_ at this. This is what happens when goddamn amateur stubborn pigheaded idiots try and do it all on their own!" 

"Oh no, oh no no no. You don't get to tell me I can't make my own decisions about putting myself in danger.” Gary wasn’t quite yelling, but he was shaking and red-faced. “Not when you made the same argument for years. Not when you're still out there killing people and not even telling your family! Talk about pot and kettle. You're not supposed to be doing this kind of thing anymore, you're _supposed_ to be a goddamned accountant, not a, not a, not some kind of goddamn spy. And as for Clint, he wouldn't have _been_ there if he hadn't insisted on running back in. And half of town wouldn't have been here if you hadn't stuck your nose in!"

"Well, I _am_ a spy. It's my job to stick my nose in, and guess what? Mary White already knew what you were doing. We were just making the best of a bad situation. It's Clint's _duty_ to be there, saving other peoples' sorry asses. That he doesn't even hesitate, that's what makes him Clint. You don't get off the hook for causing the situation in the first place."

"I didn't! Mayor White and her goddamned messed-up fish schemes did. We had no help, we had no choice."

"There's always a fucking choice. This was never something you should have been trying to do alone."

"What? Try and preserve a town and way of life I care about? Stand up when everyone else is sitting down? I know we don't see eye to eye on much of anything, but I thought you knew me better than that. From the way _Clint_ talked about you, I thought you understood the need better than that. Did we have the best strategy? Apparently not, but in the absence of anyone better, we did what we thought we had to. And you don't get to go all high and mighty on me about not being the right people to do it, or why did you bring Reuben with? You can't tell me he's cut out for this!" Gary gestured wildly at his younger son. Phil turned and blinked, as if just that moment realizing what Reuben had been doing this entire time.

"I didn't plan on-- Reuben, why are you here?" Reuben stared at him.

"You said you had to catch Heather! Leo said 'do whatever Phil tells you, and it'll be all right.' So I did. What else was I gonna do?" Gary's and Phil's expressions were near matches, right down to synchronized blinking and the fingers each had brought up to pinch the pressure points at the bridges of their noses.

"Kid--" Gary started, overlapped by Phil's

"Reuben--." They both broke off to stare at each other. After a long moment, Phil buried his face in his hands.

"If Clint is dead, I swear to God, Dad, there will be hell to pay." came out, muffled. 

"For you or for me?"

"Both of us." Phil dropped his hands and turned away, voice breaking.

"Hey guys, guys?" Reuben said, edging in between them, "I hate to break up the longest conversation you've had since 1995, but we have a problem." He pointed.

The mass of Whites at the top of the hill had begun to slither downwards. Their progress was being slowed by the algae-bedecked mud and the amount of washed-up vegetation and humans, but two groups were beginning to break away. One was veering down off to its right, where sad little jets of flame backlit a pick-up truck entangled in a set of massive pick-up sticks. The other group was headed straight down the hill towards them, a mostly amorphous mass in the dark, spiked with assorted agricultural implements. 

Gary began to edge subtly backwards, matching his younger son. Phil, on the other hand, smoothed his tie back down, straightened his back, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Phil-- what, um? What’s the plan?” Reuben asked, momentarily arrested.

“Wait for it,” his brother replied.

“Wait for... what?” Gary asked. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the rising wind.

"The cavalry," Phil shouted briefly, and pointed up.

The black belly of a helicopter appeared suddenly from behind them, flying low. It passed overhead and hovered near the horseshoe of trees. Five long lines dropped to the ground. They swayed in the wind from the rotors for a moment, and then the soldiers dropped, hitting the ground on springy heels and bouncing up with their weapons already coming around. 

The crowd paused for a moment. Four people in dark tactical suits, holding automatic rifles, were advancing on them, two of them moving to cover the crowd that had been headed off towards the hidden fire. It took several seconds, then the mass of Whites seemed to realize how badly they outnumbered their opponents. 

Several of the forward members charged. Two went down promptly to two gunshots, one of them tangled in her own pitchfork. Another one got clotheslined by an opponent half his size, as she stepped out of his way. The last stopped abruptly as he realized what had happened, slipped in the mud, and tumbled down the hill until stopped by another body.

A moment later, the rest of the mob froze, and began dropping its weapons. Reuben had stopped paying attention; he was watching his father's face instead, as the anger drained from it to be replaced by... blankness.

As the crowd up the hill began to disperse, a figure in a sleek black suit and wire-rimmed glasses walked down the hill towards them, his head gleaming in the moonlight.

"Looks like we missed a hell of a party, Coulson," he called out. "The kids’ll be disappointed-- I promised them some action. Paperwork's gonna be a bitch on this one."

"I'm technically on vacation, Agent Sitwell," Phil called back, putting the pieces of his reserve back in place as he did. "If anyone's Agent in Charge, it's Romanov. But I think you rank her, so have fun with that. I should warn you; about half this muck may turn out to be radioactive."

"Yeah, yeah, Romanov gave me a heads up about that this morning when she was in Chicago. Told me that you might need back-up, how d'you think I got here so fast?"

"Not fast enough by half, Jasper." Some exhaustion was already creeping back into Phil's voice.

"Then next time, don't try to take on an entire town on your own, Jesus, Phil. Remember what happened in Quito." Now that he was close, it was clear that Agent Sitwell's calm demeanor was a front. His eyes were wide behind his glasses as they swept over the remains of the field and the remains of Phil’s calm. Nevertheless, he clapped Phil on the shoulder, nothing more, before they exchanged a terse sit-rep and Sitwell began to move away.

Gary turned to his son as the agent left, with a kind of hopeless quirk to his eyebrow.

"I'm going to like your real job even less than I did your fake one, aren't I?" he sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> Après le Déluge: Part II  
> pulling to the right- about time, too- reunions


	20. Après le Déluge: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Après le Déluge: Part II  
> pulling to the right- about time, too- reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Part II. This one's too short for me to want to post it on a separate day, but structurally I like it better as a stand-alone chapter. So, yay bonus chapter? If you've just clicked here and haven't read Chapter 19 yet? Go back.
> 
> While I'm here: dear beta, this has been so much fun to work with you on.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Après le Déluge: Part II**

Phil heard his father's question, nodded his head briefly, gave what might theoretically have been a rueful smile, in other light and other circumstances, and began to back away.

Now that Sitwell was in control, he was free to worry about Clint. Free to head up to the tower and begin to dig in the rubble, begin to second-guess his every move that evening. He trudged up the hill, noting absently that a red-haired streak that was likely Natasha was directing one of the trainee agents in handling some kind of strange rig. A fire still burned, low, behind her and backlit her entire party.

The treeline was just ahead of him, and he dimly realized that his father and brother were trailing behind him, when the voice caught him, turned his head.

"Phil Coulson," it choked, "I hate you." 

Mayor Mary White was there, distorted nearly into a toad shape, half kneeling next to the ditch. She had a gun pointed straight at him. He had no remaining weapons, he was ankle-deep in muck, he was exhausted, and if he tried to evade one of his family members might get hit. He tensed, waiting for the right moment to charge her.

"Please die," she finished.

And then she fell over with a bullet wound blooming on her chest. Behind him, Reuben shouted, and Gary started towards her. Far down the hill, Sitwell had turned and was running towards them. Phil whipped his head around, tracing trajectories, already starting towards the likeliest direction.

His shoulders drooped as he finally found the sniper. It was not the broad, compact form of an archer. Instead, his savior was a short, skinny man in a tac suit, hanging from a tree in the stand around the exploded tower. His fast rope was still tangled in the upper branches. The man saw him and waved, his smile glinting in the moonlight. Phil just stared.

"About a half inch to the right next time, Magambo," Clint's voice sounded suddenly, and Phil's entire body pivoted. "But not bad for a man caught in a tree." Clint was sauntering down the slope towards the oak that Agent Magambo was tangled in. He was drenched and yet covered in dust, covered in blood and mud and blessedly, blessedly upright and clear-eyed. He grinned up at the probationary agent and dug something out of his pocket. Tossed it upwards, where Magambo caught it. A moment later, Magambo fell to the ground. Phil wasn't paying attention; Clint was headed his way.

"Sorry, boss," he called as he came, and his face was doing that thing it did when he was penitent, all scrunched up but with this tiny secret hint of a smile that was like a dare. "I tried hard; I think I got all the detonation cord on the lower level detached, but there was dynamite _inside_ the tank and the device was a goddamn timer, one of those alarm clock ones. You know I'm shit with those, so I grabbed the gamma rods they had lying around the place and pulled 'em into this little closet under the stairs with me. I tried, I really did." He was nearly level with Phil now, nearly within reaching distance.

Reuben had come up behind Phil, so had Gary, others were converging from the right and left and Phil didn't bother to check who they were. He watched Clint come, swallowed hard as Clint's gaze found him, locked on, intense in a way that belied the lightness in his voice. 

“No, seriously, sir, you’re scaring me. Is it about the suit? Because let me tell you, you should thank me. I hear the bedraggled look is all the rage this year. And the tie, the tie really pulls it together.” Clint stopped just outside of arm's length, and his glance faltered as he waited for a response.

"Good to see you," he said, finally.

Phil swallowed once more, looked him over, and reached out. With deliberate, careful movements he drew Clint into his arms, wrapped them tight around his waist and shoulder. Brought one hand up to the back of his neck. And kissed him.

He took his time about it, pushing forward as Clint's gasp opened the way, pulling back only so he could dip in again and again, until Clint was responding in kind, moving against him and holding him so tightly that his arms shook with the effort.

When he pulled away a last time, Clint was staring at him in wide-eyed wonder.

"I kinda think you blew our cover, boss," he whispered.

"That was entirely the point, Agent Barton," Phil whispered back.

"Oh? No other reason at all?" Clint’s grin was infectious; it was spreading rapidly across Phil's face.

"I love you and I'm glad you're alive," Phil said, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah, I figured that," Clint laughed. "I'm glad you're alive, too. But I've got to tell you," he was frowning now, leaning back just a little in Phil's arms so he could lock his eyes on Phil's. "because I've been watching you this weekend. So in case you're, well, planning, I need you to know I'm really not a settling-down kinda guy. I mean, I love you and I want to be with you, yeah. But I'm not ready for a white picket fence and kids, or even a condo and curtains and a corgi, and I may never be. The best I can promise is to be the guy you wake up with, in a different city every day if necessary."

"Thank God for that," Phil replied. "Settling down is the last thing I want to do."

"Is it?" Clint was searching his face.

“After tonight? I'm pretty sure it might kill me. _Ow_." He glared over at Natasha, who had just finished knocking their heads together. She glared back. 

Behind her, a ragged ring of people stood watching them. Gary still had that blank look on his face, as scoured clean as the field they stood in. Reuben was watching, a little smug through the shock and exhaustion. Pamela, standing next to him, very nearly mirrored his reactions. Sitwell just rolled his eyes at them. Several of the trainees had paused, their mouths actually hanging open, at least until Sitwell glared them back into action.

"About goddamn time," Natasha said. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to get you two idiots to come to the point?" They both stared at her.

"Nat..." Clint said hesitantly, "I'm glad you're happy for us but, um, you didn't really... I mean, we've been together about three months now. We, ah, we thought you knew." She stared at them both, and Clint cringed within the circle of Phil's arms.

"What?" she said, and blinked. They waited a long moment, but that seemed to be the sum total of her reaction. She finally began talking again just as Clint was reaching out to poke her. “You thought I knew? How would I-- no; later. How did _you_? Did you two finally sack up and act like adults? I swear, I was going to try a truth serum next.” Clint and Phil looked at each other a long moment, and Phil began to nod cautiously.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sitwell said, wandering through her peripheral vision. “Of course they didn’t.”

“What, then?” Sitwell shrugged.

“I got tired of the whole damn thing and told them they both totally liked each other and to just kiss already.”

“Okay, you did not,” Clint huffed out. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, and he glared. She shifted to Sitwell, who shrugged and gave a cat’s smile. At Phil, who dropped his eyes after a moment.

“Essentially,” he admitted. Sitwell backed rapidly away from Natasha as she processed this. Her lips pursed in discontent that was beginning to shade towards the kind of instability that could result in a lot of things, most of them fairly painful.

"If someone doesn't let me hug my son this instant, I am going to be having words." Deborah brushed past Sitwell and stalked past Natasha, headed straight at Phil.

"Mom?" he said, voice gone squeaky with shock, as Clint backed off and his mother enveloped him, wetly. "Mom, what?" Behind them, Elliot ran to his father, who met him with a kind of astounded horror.

"I am so mad at you, you have no idea, Phillip Coulson," she growled at him, and hugged him more tightly, shivering as she did. "But you will. Still, I'm glad you didn't get yourself killed." She switched her glare to Clint, and peeled one arm off to pat him on the cheek.

"Glad you're alive too," she said. "This way I can kill you both. You, Phil, for all the damned hiding and for getting your brother mixed up in all this mess. And _you_ ,” she wagged a finger at Clint, “I'm going to kill you for not telling us about Elliot's truancy.” Clint opened his mouth to defend himself, and quickly thought the better of it. Deborah was still holding onto his lover, after all, with a desperate grip. 

She noticed this herself, and gave her son a solid shake before releasing him. “But this isn’t the time or the place. You two and your assassin friend and the rest of my family are going to come home before you catch your deaths of cold. And _then_ , you are going to explain yourselves. Individually and as a group, and in very, very great detail." She blinked away the tears that were starting to drip down her face.

"Yes Mom," Phil said meekly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That's that, then.
> 
> Next Time:  
> You may have noticed a large number of loose threads hanging out of this damn story. Next time we'll tie off as many as we can, in a chapter that might as well be subtitled "what Sitwell knew and when he knew it," but which I'm actually just calling:
> 
> Epilogue


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue:  
> SHIELD descends- debrief- father and son- what Sitwell knew- parting words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god, are you all still here? Thank you guys so much for coming back update after update, even when I left you with vile cliffhangers. Your comments have kept me at this more times than I can count. 
> 
> While I’m here, I have to thank-- again-- my amazing beta, who also happens to be my sister. Oddly, we’ve gotten along better since she started editing me, possibly because she finally has a legitimate reason to push me to the end of my rope. Deborah would not be half the character she is without it. (If you really hate Deborah, though? Not my sister’s fault.)
> 
> A couple process notes, before I leave you to the epilogue: the next chapter is the permanent home of the Cast of Characters and the Settings. I’ll be spending some time tidying up the chapter notes now that this is a finished fic. I hope nothing will re-set the posting order, but if it does, that’s why. 
> 
> Once again: good god, you guys.
> 
> Continued notes:  
> In old-school mystery fashion, and to help keep everything straight, I drew up a list of characters and places. It will be in [Chapter 22.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/842223/chapters/1817921) 'Ware vague plot spoilers.

**Epilogue**

The motel was fully booked for the first time since the Reagan administration. SHIELD agents had taken up all of the eight rooms, doubled and tripled-up. Some of the more senior agents had pulled rank and rented out the Fernton Inn bed and breakfast, the hazardous waste containment and clean-up unit had brought its own trailer, and a couple of the scientists from SHIELD central were bunking in the spare room at the high school chemistry teacher's.

Operating from a sense of obligation as well as a realization that very little was keeping her  
husband from being disappeared except the power of nepotism, Deborah Coulson-Steinitz had (reluctantly) allowed Agent Clint Barton into her home. She had not even insisted he sleep on the couch.

Since the night when Sitwell's little black helicopters and little black vans had descended en masse on Washauwauk, much had changed in the town. While the official story cited critical infrastructure malfunctions and multiple code violations at the old water tower and EPA concerns about the health of their drinking water, everyone with half a brain knew there was more to it. They had an abundance of evidence on their side: the shock nets inserted into the mouth of the creek, the ban on using the town’s tap water for drinking, the widespread testing for “exposure to amoebiasis,” and the sheer number of battered, bruised citizens. 

The agents got to be so ubiquitous so quickly that Deanne at the Blue Note knew Rollette and Nguyen's coffee preferences by heart before the second day was up. That might have been partially because they were the only patrons of the cafe who weren’t avoiding talking to large numbers of neighbors.

For those three days, after an epic debrief that caused Natasha remark to Phil that perhaps they ought to recruit his mother for interrogations, the entire enlarged Coulson-Steinitz household had been tip-toeing around each other.

That night had seemed endless. Deborah had swept mere pleasantries like showers, bedtimes, and clearance levels before her like Whites before an oncoming flood. She presided over the tribunal in a velour housecoat, and Kelley stood braced behind her, arms akimbo, face thunderous, feet in fuzzy slippers. Phil’s story came first, entailing no fewer than five repetitions of “Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division” (with Clint helping on the last couple) before Deborah allowed him to continue. 

Clint’s encounter with Elliot beneath the tree brought Reuben to his feet, nearly dropping his exhausted son in his haste. Phil put his head in his hands as the conversation derailed into a litany of _what the hell were you thinking_ s. This lasted as long as it took Clint to get to the part about the tiger cages, at which it abruptly stopped. Kelley looked suddenly a tiny bit misty, through her anger, and was more human for the rest of the ordeal. Reuben huffed to himself and gathered his son tighter. 

(Later, in bed, Phil grumbled to Clint that no one ever allowed for extenuating circumstances for _his_ horrible childhood. Clint merely replied “tiger shit,” but as he hid his face in his lover’s shoulder, Phil couldn’t tell if he was smirking.)

There was no softening in Deborah’s face when she found out what her husband had gotten himself up to. There was a moment of quiet pain, however, a sigh that fought its way out, before she muttered “We’re too old to go through this again.” Reuben’s startled glance took in his parents before lighting on Phil, who shrugged his confusion. Their parents did not explain.

Natasha had stars in her eyes by the time Deborah finally dismissed them all, just as dawn was rising. There was a look of quiet awe in her face, and she’d clearly been taking notes. 

That was it, for three days. There wasn’t really much opportunity for more. Phil, Clint and Natasha were hardly in the house except to sleep, and when they were the conversations awkwardly skirted topics that might land another bunch of non-disclosure forms in front of peoples' noses. 

Elliot was living the quiet, corner life of a child who wanted everyone to just forget he existed for a while. He skulked at the periphery of gatherings and wolfed his food at mealtimes. Deborah was not talking. At all. To anyone. She was especially not talking to Gary, but she was nearly incapable of letting him out of her sight. He hid in the basement every chance he got. Kelley seemed caught between residual anger at Clint over the Elliot Incident, and an instinctive desire to rope him into the Significant Others Alliance. Reuben was trying to hold everyone together. 

Beyond all that, no one was quite sure when SHIELD was going to spirit Gary Coulson away.

On the evening of the third day, Marty LaBlanc was released from the hospital in Chicago and Leo Brown brought him home, though not to the old Same place. It seemed unlikely he would see his own bed again during the little time he had left. He did insist on a visit to the Coulson-Steinitz house.

And so, Marty was holding court around a bonfire in Gary Coulson's backyard. Phil was sitting next to him, dressed again in his plaid shirt and jeans, as if he weren’t a senior field agent at all. Tilt Watson was hovering apologetically in the back, and Deloris was re-arranging chips and dip on a side table. Gary had stayed close after he'd made Marty comfortable with a beer and a brownie, and he jerked up as the back door closed and Clint entered the yard, all five trainees in tow.

"Stand down," Clint laughed at him. "We're just here hiding out from the hazmat team. They finally found the motherlode of gamma rods and want help moving them."

"Where were they?"

"Heather Watson's place. Apparently she’s ex-Army-- assigned to Culver on security for General Ross. She smuggled a crate of them out for her Aunt Mary. Souvenirs, she called ‘em." He raised his eyebrows at Marty as he said it. Marty shrugged. While his back was turned, Tremayne and Rollette had descended on his plate of brownies, and Phil shook his head as he took this in. Clint looked over and snorted.

"Well, if that's the worst that ever happens to them," he said, "they're getting off real lightly. Of course," he raised his voice just as Reade was about to dip into the plate, "Agent Sitwell's going to be here in about ten minutes." Reade's hand pulled back. Tremayne and Rollette looked at each other and found ways to make themselves scarce. Gary looked over at Phil, then at Clint.

"Should I, ah...?" he asked, "I mean, is this it?"

"Is this what, Dad?"

"Is this when your friends arrest me?"

"If they were going to do that, they would have done it first thing." Phil grumbled. He wasn't looking at his father as he spoke. "I've taken care of it."

"You've taken care of it?" Gary's look could have been charitably described as incredulous.

"One of the benefits of working for a quasi-governmental mostly-secret global security agency, Dad, is being able to sweep things under the rug on occasion." Phil's tone was even, casual, nearly but not quite his agent voice. Gary winced.

"No, but-- why?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Why. I blew up a water tower, I helped cause all this... mess, I nearly got your boyfriend and a whole lot of other people killed. Last I checked you were so angry at me you could spit. Way I always figured you, you didn’t just ‘sweep things under the rug.’ So: why?" Phil's fingers hit the bridge of his nose, and Clint began eyeing the brownie plate.

"What purpose would it serve, Dad? What use could SHIELD possibly have for a bunch of aging radicals that would make it worth our while to navigate the sheer amount of paperwork it would take to find out what to prosecute you with? And do it in a fashion that didn't bring attention to ourselves? Hell, incarcerating you would be more expense than it’s worth. We have our fall guys, their names are Mary and Erwin White. You and Tilt and Mikey and Deloris, you're safe so long as you never mention the words ‘dynamite,’ ‘radiation,’ or ‘carp’ again. Say thank you." Gary eyed his son.

"Plus your mother would kill you if you let him be disappeared," Clint added, sitting down next to Phil and kneading the back of his neck. Phil acknowledged this with a shrug.

"You might be doing me a favor, though," Gary grumbled. "She's not likely to forgive me this side of never. If I know her it's going to come up anytime she's losing an argument. 'Remember that time you nearly got your son's boyfriend killed?'"

"That," Clint snorted, "is probably a bonus in her book." Gary looked up at him.

"Oh, she doesn’t want you dead. Hell, she’s not even angry at you right now; she just can’t apologize to save her life. Naw, she'll try and wait you out, like she did Kelley. If you stick with it long enough, she'll give that up and, well, she'll treat you like she does Kelley. Sorry about that. Welcome to the family."

"Am I?" Clint asked him, leaning in.

"Look, I have a lot bigger worries about my son right now than that he dates an ex-circus secret agent marksman who takes insane risks. To start with, there's the fact that he's just made me beholden to a damned secret global spy agency for my freedom."

"I'm right here, Dad," Phil grumbled.

"I know you are. Anyway, Clint, at least you have decent taste in music." Gary looked down at his hands, still swathed in bandages. Clint patted his arm.

"I knew I liked you” he said, and left. He wandered over to a corner where Kelley was setting out some plates and napkins and started to help her. After an initial glare, she settled down and let him. Gary looked over at his son, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"He likes me?" Gary asked.

"He's got horrible taste, Dad. You may have noticed."

“The thought had occurred.” Gary glanced up at Marty, then over at Phil. “ _Your_ taste has always been pretty good, though. Just keep him at your back, okay? I can’t disapprove of your career if you go and get yourself killed.” Across from them, Marty raised his beer in salute, as Phil harumphed quietly.  
___

The evening waned into night, and Natasha and Agent Sitwell arrived with four fried chickens, a bag of sides, Mikey Brandt and Pamela Brown. 

Sitwell was informally introduced to the Washauwauk natives (the formal introduction had been across mounds of non-disclosures and witness statement forms). He shook Leo’s hand as he assured the man that he’d been in contact with the Chicago SHIELD doctors, and they thought they’d come up with detoxifying treatments for his son. 

Sometime later, Natasha found Sitwell sitting with Marty, Reuben, and Leo, laughing and happily licking brownie crumbs from his fingers.

“You have no idea what a shock it was, finding out you were _real_ ,” Sitwell was saying, wagging his finger at Marty. Marty raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“What d’you mean?” he asked, as Natasha pulled up a chair and settled beside him.

“Phil didn’t tell you? Man, he does play his cards close to the vest. Look, we all got personal codes for things like ‘op gone to hell, need assistance now’ and ‘get the fuck outta here, guys,’ right? SOP, right? Shit that you can work into normal conversation?”

“Right,” Marty shrugged.

“Ever since I’ve known that jerk, ‘Martin LaBlanc’ has been his code for ‘send reinforcements.’” 

“Oh.” Marty looked at his lap and gave a congested little laugh. “He was always a sentimental fuck.” 

“Amen to that,” Sitwell said, raising a chicken wing in affirmation. 

“So tell me,” Natasha laid a hand on Sitwell’s knee, and he spun towards her. “How you managed to get those two idiots together.”

“There’s not a lot to tell,” he replied. “But you ask nicely, and I’m afraid of you. So.” He settled back into his chair, lacing his fingers together over his belly and glancing at his audience. “Those two assholes had been, as Natasha could tell you, dancing about each other for fuckingever, but we all ignored it because not our business. Except that Clint whined to Natasha,” he tipped his head at her in sympathy and she acknowledged it. “And Phil whined at me. Well, I say ‘whined,’ but this is Phil, so put your stoic senior agent filter in place. Fucking annoying, is what it was, the way he’d go on about professionalism and the job being enough and we ought to ‘just be happy with what we have, Jasper’. Anyway, as I say, we had a separation of agony aunt duties and it was all okay. Except you _left me_ ,” he hissed, rounding on Natasha. “And this time, Clint apparently thought _he_ could whine to me _too_.”

Natasha raised a single eyebrow at him, not a particularly sympathetic one, either. 

“I lasted about a week and a half before I said ‘fuck this shit,’” Sitwell continued, “and got them both to meet me at a bar for happy hour that night. Sat ‘em both down, one on each side of me, and got a beer apiece into their systems. Then I said ‘look, you’re both fucking smitten and you’re both whining at me, and I’m fucking tired of it, so just fucking _talk to each other_ already,’ and left.” 

There was a long pause.

“That was _it_?” Reuben asked, chin in his hands. Natasha leaned forward in her chair and caught Sitwell’s eye, holding it until he blanched. 

“Well, I’d left, hadn’t I? How am I supposed to know exactly what they said?” he implored. Natasha glared at him for another long moment, before saying

“You _are_ a senior agent of SHIELD, are you not?” He gave in. 

“I am. Yeah, yeah, I’d put a bug under a beer mat-- as you do. So there’s silence for a minute and a half, and then I hear _Clint_ say ‘I, um, I didn’t know you liked someone, boss?’” A string of Russian curses interrupted him, as Natasha threw up her hands in disgust. Sitwell grinned at her.

“Agreed. Anyway, there’s this other little pause, and then Coulson says ‘yes-- you.’ I imagine he thought that was pretty smooth. _Then_ I hear chairs scrape, and _that_ , as they say, is that.”

“Sitwell, you goddamn traitor, you,” Clint’s voice broke in, and he turned to find the archer hovering behind him, arms crossed, his face beet red. Jasper shook a finger up at him and hissed back

“Fifteen rounds of _Do Your Ears Hang Low_ , Barton.” 

“‘I didn’t know you liked someone, boss?’” Natasha simpered at him. Clint dropped his head into his hands.

Sitwell leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction and stole another brownie.  
__

Phil and Pamela leaned against the table together, watching Tilt Watson, Mickey Brandt, and Agents Tremayne and Rollette playing Gary’s instruments and singing-- howling, really-- _Nights in White Satin_ while Agents Reade and Magambo threw popcorn at them.

“You won’t have to worry about the kids,” Phil was saying, “our witness protection program keeps lists of decent prep schools and busing zones and whatever else it is you do for school. They’ll get you set up very nicely wherever you end up.” Pamela’s arms were crossed in front of her, and she stared at the dirt.

“It’s less the kids I’m worried about than Stu, and me,” she said. “Washauwauk was our home, we never wanted to leave. I’m grateful SHIELD is letting him cooperate-- it’s better than much of the town is getting-- but it’s such a _mess_.”

“It is that,” Phil allowed. “It’s a shame. But Washauwauk will recover.” Pamela’s laughter was harsh.

“In time and in name only, Phil. My god, don’t be dense, or don’t pretend _I’m_ dense. Washauwauk as we knew it is gone. Your parents and their friends won’t stay that long, and I don’t know what’s going to happen with all the Whites. Your Agent Sitwell said half the town might have been exposed to low levels of gamma radiation. You want to tell me how we survive?” 

Phil’s silence lasted until she patted his hand, kissed him on the cheek, and left. Then he got up and wandered over to the impromptu band around the bonfire, now featuring Clint Barton on bass and one Jasper Sitwell as lead singer, butchering _Friday, I’m In Love_.  
___

 

"Babe?" Clint slid his arms around Phil's neck and pressed up against his back. Phil tipped his phone back and smiled up at him. "I thought so," Clint told him. "That's a 'you're not going to like this' smile. What's up?"

Phil stood, linked their fingers, and pulled him away from the bonfire, where Tilt was currently playing solo. Pamela had drifted off home, as had Leo Brown, and the trainees were starting to wilt at the edges. It was fully dark. He took a look around and sighed.

“Nothing bad... I just need to head to Malibu tomorrow. Early."

"Malibu-- they found Stark? _Alive_?"

"They found Stark alive. Fury wants me there-- before we cause any more damage to small towns or SHIELD morale, he says. And, ah, I've been emailing Hill.” He pulled them underneath the gnarled old oak in the back corner of the yard, and slid an arm around Clint’s waist.

Tilt’s voice wafted in the brief pause between words: “I’ve seen the lights of cities and been inside their doors, sailed to foreign countries and walked upon their shores.”

“ _She_ says-- well,” Phil amended, “first of all she says she either wants to see Declaration of Extra-Professional Relationship forms from both of us, or an Inappropriate Conduct by a Coworker form from you, by the end of this week."

"Lies and slander. I'm the one who's usually inappropriate, not you. I'm honestly shocked one of the trainees hasn't filed a Hostile Workplace Environment complaint against us yet."

"They're not likely to, given that we just gave them ringside seats to the hottest thing to hit the SHIELD gossip mill since you brought Natasha home and asked if we could keep her. Anyway, they pretty much worship you."

"I've noticed. It's kinda cute. As long as Tremayne refrains from flinging panties, anyway. What else does Hill say?"

Phil paused before answering. Clint had shifted until he was, again, draped over his back, and his fingers were tapping on Phil’s chest, in time with the music. “Lord I hope she's happy cause she sure deserves to be,” Tilt sang, “especially for what she did for me.”

"Well, about those trainees...."

"Oh, God."

"Oh, yes. You're being seconded to Professional Development on 15% time for the next year, and your first assignment is apparently Vancouver." Phil curled a hand around Clint's, as his lover slumped forward onto him. "We knew this was going to happen, when you and Natasha got promoted," he said, hesitant. Clint nodded against his cheek. "And I think... I know some of what the Director has planned for you, and I think this is going to happen more and more." He took a deep breath. "And I know we just spent a good six months worth of adult relationship talk energy already this trip but... what you said about being the man I wake up with?"

"Yeah?"

"What if we're not often in the same place to wake up together?" He held his breath, letting Clint breathe for both of them for a moment.

"Let me make an amendment to that," Clint said finally. "I'll also be the guy who you have hot Skype sex with while you're gone."

“I can do that."

“All of my good times, all my roamin’ around” Tilt had the trainees singing along now, languidly, “One of these days I might be in your town. And I guess I owe it all to Pamela Brown.”  
__

"I'm leaving tonight, and they're leaving tomorrow morning," Natasha said, and Deborah turned reflexively at the voice in her ear. Natasha nodded back over her shoulder, indicating Clint and Phil. Deborah swung her head back, and they both watched for a moment as Clint whispered something in Phil's ear. Phil dipped his head and blushed. "in case you were waiting for the right opportunity to talk to your son about anything. Or at all."

"I..." Deborah paused, then sighed. "I..." she tried again. Shook her head. Shrugged. Natasha put a hand on her shoulder.

"If you can at least find a way to say goodbye to him," she said, "it would be a good idea. There aren't a lot of guarantees in our line of work."

"I hated that," Deborah had finally found her voice, in amongst the gravel, "when he was in the Rangers. I hated that he put us through it with him. Knowing that he was in danger all the time, knowing he’d chosen to put himself into danger. How am I supposed to deal with it again?"

"You _were_ dealing with it, all this time. You just didn't know it." Deborah's face shut down. "Now you do," Natasha continued. "And now there's no reason for you not to know when he's been hurt, so feel lucky." Her voice hardened a little. "Almost no-one has family who have that privilege. And many of us don't have family at all." she drew away as Deborah didn't react. "I can see where Coulson gets his inability to apologize from. But since you're both incapable of it, perhaps you should just outflank it. Start over. Write him about Elliot and Noah. Ask him about Clint."

"Clint." Deborah's eyes narrowed as she watched him. He was tugging Phil to his feet, his arms around the man's waist.

"Clint. He makes good family, once you're used to him," Natasha smiled, "you want to kill him half the time, mind you, but he's loyal and he'll forgive just about anything." Deborah glanced back at her. "And he loves your son."

"He does." She watched him drag Phil into the house. Sat silent for a moment as the night lengthened, before turning to look speculatively at Natasha. "You care about them both." The look in her eyes was so close to a look Coulson would get just before one of his more spectacularly risk-friendly proposals that Natasha stepped back.

"I do," she said, cautious. Deborah nodded, turned inward for a moment, then glanced back up.

"Not for now, you understand. Clearly not. But just in case, in the future... how do you feel about surrogacy?"

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on that note? Thank you, and goodnight.
> 
> Let [Leo Kottke](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpdGvlVGZmk) play you out, if you want to find out just how much of a massively overgrown songfic this story really is.


	22. Settings and Cast of Characters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting and Cast of Characters developed for the story. 'Ware vague spoilers.

**Setting**  
Washauwauk, IL a small town on Fernton Creek just off the River. It’s under 3,000 people, in the middle of farm territory, and has a scenic old-school stone water tower. It’s got an improving sort of mayor, a small colony of hippies, and a big problem with Silver Carp.

**Locations**  
-The Same Old Place: the town’s tavern, owned by Leo Brown.

-The Blue Note Cafe: the other place you eat.

-The Coulson-Steinitz family residence, set on the edge of town. A Victorian with a lower den that converts to a guest room, four bedrooms upstairs, and a basement with a surprising hydroponic setup.

-White’s Place: the White family farm. Currently, Dean White is experimenting extensively with hydroponics and aquaculture. Set not far from town and the water tower.

-The old Same place, now LaBlanc’s place: former farmstead on the edge of town, across from the White place, where Martin lives in a trailer.

**Characters**

The Coulson-Steinitz family

-Gary Coulson: bearded aging hippie radical with pot in his basement and strong opinions on many issues, including the perpetuation of colonial mores through globalization. Has an extensive folk record collection.

-Deborah Coulson-Steinitz: overbearing mother and high school teacher who loves her adopted hometown, her husband, her two sons, and her son’s sons. She doesn’t understand why her older son doesn’t settle down already.

-Phillip Coulson, their older son, who rebelled and went into the Army. He doesn’t visit much, but it’s high school reunion time and an old friend has asked him to come back. He has one too many dates, and not enough drinks. Actually a SHIELD agent, his cover is that he works as a financial analyst for the International Monetary Fund.

-Reuben Steinitz, their younger son, who moved to Evanston and lives there with his wife Kelly and their two sons Elliot and Noah. Reuben is actually an accountant. His hair is also thinning, he drives an SUV, and he and Phil used to slip into Chicago to watch the Cubs together. 5 years younger.

-Kelly Gardiner Steinitz, the daughter-in-law: perpetually harried. Reuben chased her for ages before she finally agreed to date him. They later eloped. According to her mother-in-law, she is too strict with the boys about sweets, and not strict enough with the boys about bedtimes.

At SHIELD

-Director Nick Fury: has no time for this shit. (No, seriously, he doesn't even appear.)

-Clint Barton: field agent, sniper specialist, archer, World’s Greatest Marksman. Recently promoted and temporarily assigned to advanced field training with junior agents. Orphan with a past in the circus, a cocky attitude, a thing for his handler, and a way with a stringed instrument.

-Natasha Romanov: spy, assassin and secret agent. Ex-KGB, Red Room trained, now a SHIELD agent. Natasha was brought in by Clint Barton, her former lover, and the two are close as siblings these days. In the past, she has occasionally acted as Agent Coulson’s “date” to family events in his hometown, in order to pacify his mother. Also recently promoted, she returned a month ago from a three month-long op in Bratislava.

-Agent Jasper Sitwell: gets stuck with the cover-up every goddamn time.

-The Cavalry: Trainee agents Nguyen, Magambo, Reade, Tremayne and Rollette, out of the Great Lakes (Chicago) station. Temporarily reporting to Agent Sitwell for advanced field training.

In Washauwauk

-Martin LaBlanc: Phil’s old Army friend, who asks him to come to the high school reunion. Martin has cancer and not much longer to live. He’s got something on his mind, and needs Phil’s help.

-Pamela Brown: Phil’s high school sweetheart. She’s got curly brown hair, blue eyes, a husband with a pickup truck, two daughters and a son, and a job at the elementary school.

-Dean White: Cousin of Martin. Lives outside of town near the water tower. Organic farmer. Something of a crackpot. Knows more than he’s telling about silver carp.

-Mayor Mary White: cousin of Dean, cousin of Martin. A few years older than Phil, she’s trying to put Washauwauk on the map by attracting more fish farming. She has Big Plans.

-Leo Brown: Pamela’s cousin. Runs the bar in town. Knows everything. Has music nights, where Gary Coulson occasionally plays with the Close Enough to Fernton boys.

-The Close Enough to Fernton Boys: Eddie “Tilt” Watson, bass and guitar; Deloris Watson, vocals and accordion; Mikey Brant, demon fiddle; Gary Coulson, banjo and guitar. Folk and bluegrass band composed of locals. All of them concerned with silver carp.

-The Washauwauk High Graduates. When the high school graduating class is so small, it makes sense to have all-year high school reunions. A great way to find out which of your classmates made good, which owns a car dealership, which had three divorces, and which is secretly a spy. Go Mighty Hawks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "I'm The Guy That Didn't Marry Pretty Pamela Brown"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051546) by [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles)




End file.
